::7/7/^M 


.^LUM^i^  ' 


FIFTEEN   DAYS. 


EXTRACT  FEOI  EDWARD  COLVIL'S  JOURNAL. 


"Aux  plus  d4sh6rit£s  le  plus  d'amour." 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS. 

1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by  M.  Lowell  Putnam,  in  the 
Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


FIFTEEN   DAYS. 


2068021 


'Yet  once  more,  0  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year.' 


FIFTEEN   DAYS. 


GOOD-FRIDAY  EVENING,  April  5,  1844. 

No  entry  in  my  journal  since  the  twenty-eighth 
of  March.  Yet  these  seven  silent  days  have  a 
richer  history  than  any  that  have  arrived,  with 
their  exactions  or  their  gifts,  since  those  liberal 
ones  of  two  springs  ago  came  to  endow  me  with 
your  friendship. 

Easy  to  tread  and  pleasant  to  look  back  upon  is 
the  level  plain  of  our  life,  uniform,  yet  diversified, 
familiar,  yet  always  new ;  but,  from  time  to  time, 
we  find  ourselves  on  little  sunny  heights  from  which 
the  way  we  have  traversed  shows  yet  fairer  than 
we  knew  it,  and  that  which  we  are  to  take  invites 
with  more  cheerful  promise. 

I  did  not  know  last  Friday  morning  that  any- 
thing was  wanting  to  me.  And  had  I  not  enough  ? 
My  farm-duties,  which  restrict  my  study-time  just 
enough  to  leave  it  always  the  zest  of  privilege  ;  my 
books,  possessed  or  on  the  way  ;  my  mother's  dear 
affection  ;  your  faithful  letters,  true  to  the  hour ; 
Selden's,  that  come  at  last ;  —  these,  and  then  the 


2  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

casual  claims,  the  little  countless  pleasures  infinitely 
varied,  special  portion  of  each  human  day !  always 
something  to  do,  something  to  enjoy,  something  to 
expect.  And  yet  I  would  not  now  go  back  and  be 
where  I  was  last  Friday  morning.  Beautiful  mira- 
cle !  Our  cup  is  always  full,  yet  its  capacity  is 
never  reached ! 

Since  the  day  I  stood  at  my  gate,  listening  for 
the  fading  sounds  of  your  horse's  feet,  many  guests 
have  crossed  my  threshold  and  recrossed  it,  —  all 
received  with  good-will,  dismissed  with  good  wishes. 
Last  Friday  brought  one  whom  I  took  to  my  heart 
and  hold  there.  The  first  clasp  of  his  firm  hand, 
the  first  look  of  his  sweet,  frank  eyes,  bound  me  to 
him  forever.  Keith,  I  have  more  to  love  than  I 
had  a  week  ago,  and  the  world  is  more  beautiful 
for  me,  life  better  worth  living. 

We  had  had  gray  weather  for  a  week  before 
he  came  ;  the  blue  sky  appeared  with  him,  and 
smiled  on  us  every  day  while  he  was  here.  I  can- 
not now  separate  the  thought  of  him  from  that  of 
sunshine,  nor  can  I  tell  how  much  of  the  glow  and 
freshness  of  those  days  was  of  the  atmosphere,  how 
much  from  his  happy  nature. 

I  had  just  come  in  from  work,  and  was  sitting 
near  the  window,  watching  the  slowly  clearing  sky, 
when  I  heard  a  step  coming  down  the  road.  You 
know  I  am  used  to  listen  to  approaching  footsteps, 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  3 

and  to  judge  beforehand  what  manner  of  man  is 
about  to  present  himself  at  my  door.  This  was  a 
step  that  struck  very  cheerfully  on  the  ear.  Firm, 
regular,  it  had  no  haste  in  it,  yet  a  certain  eager- 
ness. My  mother  heard  it,  too.  "  The  feet  of  him 
that  bringeth  good  tidings,"  she  said,  smiling.  The 
sun  broke  out  full  and  clear  as  she  spoke.  "  Can  it- 
be  Dr.  Borrow?  —  it  must  be,"  I  asked  and  an- 
swered myself;  and  my  heart  warmed  to  him  as  it 
had  not  when  I  was  reading  his  praises  in  Selden's 
letter.  I  heard  the  gate  open  and  close  again.  I 
went  to  the  door,  and  saw,  coming  along  the  path 
I  guided  you  on  that  first  dark  night,  a  figure  that 
agreed  perfectly  with  the  step,  but  not  at  all  with 
what  I  had  imagined  Dr.  Borrow.  It  was  that  of  a 
man  hardly  more  than  twenty,  who  carried  about 
with  him,  it  seemed,  a  world  of  youthful  happiness, 
but  assuredly  no  great  weight  of  learning.  Erect,  • 
vigorous,  animated,  his  whole  person  spoke  harmo- 
nious strength  and  freedom  of  soul  and  body.  His 
head  was  uncovered,  —  or,  rather,  it  was  protected 
only  by  its  masses  of  fair  brown  hair,  whose  curls 
the  light  wind  that  had  sprung  up  to  meet  him  lifted 
tenderly,  as  if  to  show  them  sparkling  in  the  sun- 
shine. This  was  no  chance  visitor  ;  he  walked  as 
if  he  knew  where  he  was  going,  and  felt  himself  an 
expected  and  a  welcome  guest.  He  had  come  from 
far ;  his  well-fitting  travelling-suit  of  dark  gray  told 


4  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

of  a  very  distant  skill  and  fashion,  and  was  a  little 
the  worse  for  the  long  road.  He  had  a  knapsack 
on  his  shoulders.  From  a  strap  which  crossed  his 
breast  hung  a  green  tin  case,  such  as  botanists  carry 
on  their  tours.  This,  again,  connected  him  with 

7         O  ' 

Dr.  Borrow ;  but  the  wild-flowers  in  his  hand  had 
been  gathered  for  their  beauty,  not  their  rarity, 
and  the  happy  grace  of  their  arrangement  denoted 
rather  the  artist  than  the  savant. 

He  saw  me  as  soon  as  I  came  to  the  door ;  for  he 
quickened  his  step,  and,  from  where  I  stood,  I  could 
see  his  face  brighten.  You  do  not  know  the  face, 
and  it  is  not  like  any  other ;  how  can  you  under- 
stand the  impression  it  made  on  me  ? 

Our  hands  were  soon  joined  in  a  cordial  clasp.* 
He  answered  my  warm  welcome  with  a  look  full  of 
youthful  delight,  behind  which  lay  an  earnest,  manly 
satisfaction. 

The  name  which  was  in  my  mind  came,  though 
hesitatingly,  to  my  lips  :  "  Dr.  Borrow "  I  be- 
gan. A  flash  of  merriment  passed  over  my  guest's 
features ;  but  they  were  instantly  composed,  as  if  he 
felt  the  mirthful  thought  a  disrespect  to  the  absent. 

"  I  am  Harry  Dudley.  Dr.  Borrow  is  coming. 
I  walked  on  before  to  let  you  know." 

He  laid  his  bouquet  of  wild-flowers  in  the  shadow 
of  the  doorsteps,  threw  off  his  knapsack,  flung 
down  on  it  the  felt  hat  he  had  carried  crumpled  up 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  5 

under  his  arm,  and,  turning,  showed  himself  ready- 
to  walk  off  with  me  to  meet  the  Doctor.  We 
had  reached  the  gate,  when  he  stopped  suddenly 
and  looked  towards  the  house. 

"  But  do  you  not  wish ?  " 

"  No,"  —  I  understood  him  at  once,  —  "  my 
mother  is  prepared ;  we  have  been  for  some  time 
expecting  Dr.  Borrow  —  and  you,"  I  ought  in  po- 
liteness to  have  added,  but  in  truth  I  could  not.  I 
looked  at  him  a  little  anxiously,  fearing  he  might 
have  remarked  the  omission,  but  his  eyes  met  mine, 
glad  and  frank. 

Dr.  Borrow  had  engrossed  us.  His  visit,  from 
the  time  it  was  first  promised,  had  been  the  one 
theme  here  within  doors  and .  without.  Morning 
and  evening  I  had  consulted  with  my  mother  over 
his  entertainment ;  Tabitha  had,  more  than  once, 
in  his  behalf,  displaced  and  reinstatect^very  object 
in  the  house  ;  Hans  and  his  boys  had  stimulated 
each  other  to  unusual  efforts,  that  the  farm  might 
find  favor  in  such  enlightened  eyes.  Harry  Dud- 
ley !  certainly  I  ought  to  have  been  expecting  him. 
Certainly  Selden's  letter  had  told  me  he  was  com- 
ing. But  the  mention  of  him  had  been  so  slight, 
or,  I  will  now  rather  say,  so  simple,  that  I  had 
almost  overlooked  it.  A  line  held  it,  after  three 
full  pages  given  to  Dr.  Borrow.'  "  Harry  Dudley 
goes  with  him,"  —  that  was  all.  How  little  impor- 


6  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

lance  the  name  had  for  me  which  was  to  have  so 
much ! 

But,  if  no  pains  had  been  taken  to  prepossess  me 
in  Harry's  favor,  full  justice,  I  am  sure,  had  been 
done  me  with  him.  He  seemed  to  regard  me  not 
as  an  acquaintance  newly  found,  but  as  an  old  friend 
rejoined:  we  were  going  out  to  meet  and  welcome 
the  stranger  whose  comforts  we  were  to  care  for 

o 

together. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  give  Dr.  Borrow  your  room, 
and  you  will  take  the  little  one  down-stairs,  that  you 
had  when  Selden  was  here  ?  I  shall  sleep  in  the 
barn  on  the  hay." 

I  was,  to  be  sure,  just  considering  whether  I 
should  have  one  of  our  little  impromptu  bedsteads 
set  up  for  Harry,  in  a  corner  of  the  room  —  yours 
—  which  had  been  assigned  to  the  Doctor,  or 
whether  I  should  share  my  little  nook  down-stairs 
with  him.  In  the  end,  he  had  it  all  his  own  way. 

It  was  not  long  before  we  came  upon  the  Doctor. 
I  could  not  draw  his  full  portrait  at  first  sight,  as  I 
did  Harry's,  for  I  had  only  a  profile  view  of  his 
stooping  figure,  until  I  was  quite  close  to  him. 
He,  too,  carried  a  knapsack  ;  —  a  large  russet  one ; 
Harry's  was  black ;  —  and  strapped  to  it  was  a 
long  umbrella,  which  protruded  on  either  side. 
He  was  grubbing'  in  a  meadow,  and  was  either 
really  so  intent  that  he  did  not  see  us,  or  thought 


.  FIFTEEN    DAYS.  7 

it  better  not  to  let  us  know  that  he  did  until  he  had 
finished  his  work.  We  stood  near  him  some  min- 
utes before  he  straightened  himself  up,  booty  in 
hand.  He  scrutinized  his  prize  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  apparently  satisfied,  came  forward  and  saluted 
me  in  a  very  friendly  tone.  His  dark-blue  specta- 
cles prevented  me  from  seeing  whether  the  eyes 
seconded  the.  voice,  and  his  other  features  are  too 
heavy  to  be  very  expressive.  When  I  had  made 
known  my  satisfaction  at  his  arrival,  and  he  had 
acquiesced, — when  I  had  inquired  after  Selden,  and 
he  had  answered  that  he  had  not  seen  our  common 
friend  for  six  weeks,  we  stood  opposite  each  other, 
I  looking  for  a  subject  which  could  not  be  disposed 
of  so  promptly,  and  he,  apparently,  waiting  for 
me  to  bring  it  forward.  But  Harry  now  spoke 
eagerly :  — 

"  Have  you  found  it  ?  "  —  holding  out  his  hand  at 
the  same  time  for  the  poor  little  specimen  which  the 
Doctor  held  between  his  thumb  and  finger. 

"  Yes." 

"  The  very  one  you  have  been  looking  for  ?  " 

"  The  very  thing." 

"  Shall  I  put  it  into  the  box  ?  " 

Harry  received  the  little  object  respectfully,  and 
deposited  it  in  the  tin  case  with  care.  He  then  re- 
lieved Dr.  Borrow's  shoulders  of  the  knapsack  and 
took  it  on  his  own,  having  first  withdrawn  the  um- 


8  FIFTEEN   DAYS.  . 

brella  and  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  the  owner,  who 
watched  its  extrication  with  interest,  and  received 
it  in  a  way  which  showed  it  to  be  an  object  of  at- 
tachment. The  Doctor  gathered  up  some  inferior 
spoil  which  lay  in  a  circle  round  the  place  where  he 
had  been  at  work.  Harry  found  room  for  all  in 
the  box.  He  had  entered  so  folly  into  his  compan- 
ion's success,  that  I  thought  he  might  after  all  be 
a  botanist  himself;  but  he  told  me,  as  we  walked 
towards  the  house,  that  he  knew  nothing  of  plants 
except  what  he  had  learned  in  journeying  with  Dr. 
Borrow. 

"  But  I  know  what  it  is  to  want  to  complete  your 
collection,"  he  added,  laughing.  "  We  have  been 
all  the  morning  looking  for  this  particular  kind  of 
grass.  Dr.  Borrow  thought  it  must  grow  some- 
where in  this  neighborhood,  and  here  it  is  at  last. 
The  Doctor  has  a  great  collection  of  grasses." 

"  The  largest,  I  think  I  may  say,  on  this  conti- 
nent, —  one  of  the  largest,  perhaps,  that  exists," 
said  the  Doctor,  with  the  candor  of  a  man  who 
feels  called  upon  to  render  himself  justice,  since 
there  is  no  one  else  qualified  to  do  it.-  And  then 
he  entered  upon  grasses  ;  setting  forth  the  great  part 
filled  by  this  powerful  family,  in  the  history  of  our 
earth,  and  vindicating  triumphantly  his  regard  for 
its  humblest  member. 

When  we  came  within  sight  of  the  house,  Harry 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  9 

walked  rapidly  on.  By  the  time  the  Doctor  and 
I  rejoined  him  at  the  door,  he  had  disencumbered 
himself  of  the  knapsack,  had  taken  his  flowers  from 
their  hiding-place,  and  stood  ready  to  follow  us  in. 

I  introduced  Dr.  Borrow  to  my  mother  in  form, 
and  was  about  to  do  the  same  by  Harry,  who  had 
stood  back  modestly  until  his  friend  had  been  pre- 
sented ;  but  he  was  now  already  taking  her  ex- 
tended hand,  bowing  over  it  with  that  air  of  filial 
deference  which  we  hear  that  high-bred  Frenchmen 
have  in  their  manner  to  elder  women.  I  wondered 
that  I  had  before  thought  him  so  young ;  his  fin- 
ished courtesy  was  that  of  a  man  versed  in  society. 
But  the  next  moment  he  was  offering  her  his  wild- 
flowers  with  the  smile  with  which  an  infant  brings 
its  little  fistful  of  dandelions  to  its  mother,  delight- 
ing in  the  pleasure  it  has  been  preparing  for  her. 
His  name  had  made  more  impression  on  my  mother 
than  on  me.  She  called  him  by  it  at  once.  This 
redeemed  all  my  omissions,  if,  indeed,  he  had  re- 
marked them,  and  I  believe  he  had  not. 

The  Doctor,  in  the  mean  while,  had  lifted  his 
spectacles  to  the  top  of  his  head.  You  have  not 
seen  a  man  until  you  have  looked  into  his  eyes. 
Dr.  Borrow's,  of  a  clear  blue,  made  another  being 
of  him.  His  only  speaking  feature,  they  speak  in- 
telligence and  good- will.  I  felt  that  I  should  like 
him,  and  I  do.  He  did  not,  however,  find  himself 


10  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

so  immediately  at  home  with  us  as  Harry  did.  He 
took  the  chair  I  offered  him,  but  sat  silent  and 
abstracted,  answering  absently,  by  an  inclination 
of  the  head,  my  modest  attempts  at  conversation. 
Harry,  interpreting  his  mood,  brought  him  the 
green  tin  case.  He  took  it  a  little  hastily,  and 
looked  about  him,  as  if  inquiring  for  a  place  where 
he  could  give  himself  to  the  inspection  of  its  con- 
tents. I  offered  to  conduct  him  to  his  room.  Harry 
went  out  promptly  and  brought  in  the  well-stuffed 
russet  knapsack,  —  took  the  respectable  umbrella 
from  the  corner  where  it  was  leaning,  and  followed 
us  up-stairs,  —  placed  his  load  inside  the  chamber- 
door,  and  ran  down  again.  I  introduced  the  Doc- 
tor to  the  chair  and  table  in  my  little  study,  where 
he  installed  himself  contentedly. 

When  I  came  down,  I  found  Harry  standing  by 
my  mother.  He  was  putting  the  flowers  into  water 
for  her,  —  consulting  her,  as  he  arranged  them,  now 
by  a  look,  now  by  a  question.  She  answered  the 
bright  smile  with  which  he  took  leave  of  her,  when 
his  work  was  done,  by  one  tender,  almost  tearful. 
I  knew  to  whom  that  smile  was  given.  I  knew 

•  o 

that  beside  her  then  stood  the  vision  of  a  little  boy, 
fair-haired,  dark-eyed,  like  Harry,  and  full  of  such 
lovely  promise  as  Harry's  happy  mother  could  see 
fulfilled  in  him.  But  the  sadness  flitted  lightly, 
and  a  soft  radiance  overspread  the  dear  pale  face. 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  11 

The  name  of  our  little  Charles  had  been  in  my 
mind  too,  and  my  thoughts  followed  hers  backward 
to  that  sweet  infancy,  and  forward  to  that  unblem- 
ished maturity,  attained  in  purer  spheres,  of  which 
Harry's  noble  and  tender  beauty  had  brought  us  a 
suggestion. 

It  was  the  absence  of  a  moment.  I  was  recalled 
by  a  greeting  given  in  Harry's  cordial  voice.  Tabi- 
tha  stood  in  the  doorway.  She  studied  the  stranger 
with  a  long  look,  and  then,  advancing  in  her  state- 
liest manner,  bestowed  on  him  an  emphatic  and 
elaborate  welcome.  He  listened  with  grave  and 
courteous  attention,  as  a  prince  on  a  progress  might 
receive  the  harangue  of  a  village  mayor,  and  an- 
swered with  simple  thanks,  which  she,  satisfied 
with  having  performed  her  own  part,  accepted  as 
an  ample  return,  and  applied  herself  to  more  prac- 
tical hospitality. 

Harry  had  been  intent  on  some  purpose  when 
Tabitha  intercepted  him.  He  now  went  quickly 
out,  brought  in  the  knapsack  he  had  thrown  down 
beside  the  door  on  his  first  arrival,  and  began  to 
undo  the  straps.  I  felt  myself  interested,  for  there 
was  a  happy  earnestness  in  his  manner  which  told 
of  a  pleasure  on  the  way  for  somebody,  and  it 
seemed  to  be  my  turn.  I  was  not  mistaken.  He 
drew  out  a  book,  and  then  another  and  another. 

"  These  are  from  Selden." 


12  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

He  watched  me  as  I  read  the  title-pages,  enter- 
ing warmly  into  my  satisfaction,  which  was  great 
enough,  I  am  sure,  to  be  more  than  a  reward  for 
the  weight  Selden's  gift  had  added  to  his  pack. 

"  It  does  not  take  long  to  know  Harry  Dudley. 
Dear,  affectionate  boy,  in  what  Arcadia  have  you 
grown  up,  that  you  have  thus  carried  the  inno- 
cence and  simplicity  of  infancy  through  your  twenty 
years !  "  This  I  said  within  myself,  as  I  looked  up- 
on his  pure  forehead,  and  met  the  sweet,  confiding 
expression  of  his  beautiful  eyes.  Yet,  even  then, 
something  about  the  mouth  arrested  me,  something 
of  deep,  strong,  resolute,  which  spoke  the  man  who 
had  already  thought  and  renounced  and  resisted. 
It  does  not  take  long  to  love  Harry  Dudley,  but  I 
have  learned  that  he  is  not  to  be  known  in  an  hour. 
Selden  might  well  leave  him  to  make  his  own  in- 
troduction. I  can  understand,  that,  to  those  who 
are  familiar  with  him,  his  very  name  should  seem 
to  comprehend  a  eulogium. 

Tabitha  gave  Dr.  Borrow  no  such  ceremonious 
reception  as  she  had  bestowed  on  Harry.  She  w^as 
hospitable,  however,  and  gracious,  with  a  touch  of 
familiarity  in  her  manner  just  enough  to  'balance 
the  condescension  in  his.  As  he  had  not  been  wit- 
ness of  the  greater  state  with  which  Harry  was  re- 
ceived, he  was  not,  I  trust,  sensible  of  any  want. 

We  sat  up  late  that  evening.     The  hours  passed 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  13 

rapidly.  Dr.  Borrow  had  laid  aside  his  preoccupa- 
tions, and  gave  himself  up  to  the  pleasures  of  dis- 
course. He  passed  over  a  wide  range  of  topics, 
opening  freely  for  us  his  magazines  of  learning,  sci- 
entific and  scholastic,  and  displaying  a  power  of 
graphic  narration  I  was  not  prepared  for.  He  aids 
himself  with  apt  and  not  excessive  gesture.  In 
relating  conversations,  without  descending  to  mim- 
icry, he  characterizes  his  personages  for  you,  so  that 
you  are  never  in  doubt. 

Selden,  telling  me  almost  everything  else  about 
the  Doctor,  had  said  nothing  of  his  age  ;  but  he 
spoke  of  him  as  of  a  friend  of  his  own,  and  is  him- 
self only  twenty-seven  ;  so  I  had  supposed  it  to  lie 
on  the  brighter  side  of  thirty.  It  did,  indeed,  seem 
marvellous  that  the  stores  of  erudition  attributed  to 
him  could  have  been  gathered  in  so  early,  but  I 
made  allowance  for  Selden's  generous  faculty  of 
admiration. 

Dr.  Borrow  must  be  forty,  or  perhaps  a  little 
more.  He  is  of  middle  height,  square-built,  of  a 
dull  complexion,  which  makes  his  open  blue  eyes 
look  very  blue  and  open.  You  are  to  imagine  for 
him  a  strong,  clear  voice,  a  rapid,  yet  distinct  utter- 
ance, and  a  manner  which  denotes  long  habit  of 
easy  and  secure  superiority. 

I  have  never  known  the  Doctor  in  finer  vein 
than  that  first  evening.  We  were  only  three  to 


14  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

listen  to  him,  but  it  was  long  since  he  had  had  even 
so  large  an  audience  capable  of  admiring,  I  will  not 
say  of  appreciating  him.  Whatever  his  topic,  he 
enchained  our  attention  ;  but  he  made  his  power 
most  felt,  perhaps,  when  treating  of  his  own  spe- 
cialty, or  scientific  subjects  connected  with  it.  He 
is,  as  he  told  us,  emphatically  a  practical  man,  pre- 
ferring facts  to  speculations.  He  propounds  no 
theories  of  his  own,  but  he  develops  those  of  others 
very  happily,  setting  forth  the  most  opposite  with 
the  same  ingenuity  and  clearness.  "When,  in  these 
expositions,  he  sometimes  approached  the  limits 
where  earthly  science  merges  in  the  heavenly, 
Harry's  face  showed  his  mind  tending  powerfully 
forward.  But  the  Doctor  always  stopped  short  of 
the  point  to  which  he  seemed  leading,  and  was  on 
the  ground  again  without  sharing  in  the  fall  he  had 
prepared  for  his  listeners. 

Very  entertaining  to  me  were  Dr.  Borrow's  ac- 
counts of  his  travelling  experiences  and  observa- 
tions in  our  own  State  and  neighborhood.  His 
judgments  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  I  soon 
found  that  his  inquiry  had  been  conducted  with  the 
view  rather  of  confirming  than  of  testing  them.  I 
felt  myself  compelled  to  demur  at  some  of  his  con- 
clusions ;  but  I  cannot  flatter  myself  that  I  did  any- 
thing towards  shaking  his  faith  in  them:  he  only 
inculcated  them  upon  me  with  greater  zeal  and 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  15 

confidence.  When  a  little  debate  of  this  kind  oc- 
curred, Harry  followed  it  attentively,  but  took  no 
part  in  it.  I  sometimes  felt  that  his  sympathies 
were  on  my  side,  and  my  opponent  certainly 
thought  so,  —  for,  when  I  pressed  him  a  little  hard, 
he  would  turn  upon  his  travelling  -  companion  a 
burst  of  refutation  too  lively  to  be  addressed  to  a 
new  acquaintance.  The  pleasant  laugh  in  Harry's 
eyes  showed  him  amused,  yet  still  far  within  the 
limits  of  respect. 

Sometimes,  in  the  course  of  his  narrations,  or  of 
his  disquisitions  upon  men  and  manners,  American 
or  foreign,  the  Doctor  turned  for  corroboration  to 

O      ' 

Harry,  who  gave  it  promptly  and  gladly  when  he 
could.  If  he  felt  himself  obliged  to  dissent,  he  did 
so  with  deference,  and  forbore  to  urge  his  objections, 
if  they  were  overruled,  as  they  commonly  were. 

I  found,  however,  before  the  first  evening  was 
over,  that,  with  ah1  his  modesty,  Harry  maintained 
his  independence.  When  the  Doctor,  who  is  no 
Utopist,  found  occasion  to  aim  a  sarcasm  at  the 
hopes  and  prospects  of  the  lovers  of  humanity,  or 
pronounced  in  a  slighting  tone  some  name  dear  to 
them,  Harry  never  failed  to  put  in  a  quiet,  but 
express  protest,  which  should  at  least  exempt  him 
from  complicity.  And  Dr.  Borrow  would  turn 
upon  him  a  satirical  smile,  which  gradually  softened 
into  an  indulgent  one,  and  then  take  up  again 


16  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

quietly  the  thread  of  his  discourse.  At  times, 
Harry  was  forced  into  more  direct  and  sustained 
opposition.  I  observed  that  his  tone  was  then,  if 
less  positive  than  his  antagonist's,  quite  as  decided. 
If  the  Doctor's  words  came  with  all  the  weight  of  a 
justifiable  self-esteem,  Harry's  had  that  of  deep  and 
intimate  conviction.  I  am  persuaded  that  conversa- 
tion would  lose  all  zest  for  the  Doctor,  if  conducted 
long  with  persons  who  agreed  with  him.  He  kin- 
dles at  the  first  hint  of  controversy,  as  the  horse 
at  the  sound  of  the  trumpet.  To  Harry  sympathy 
is  dearer  than  triumph;  he  enters  upon  contest 
only  when  compelled  by  loyalty  to  principle  or  to 
friendship. 

The  elder  man  needs  companionship  as  much 
as  the  younger,  and  perhaps  enjoys  it  as  much, 
though  very  differently.  The  admiration  he  ex- 
cites reacts  upon  him  and  stimulates  to  new  efforts. 
Harry's  tender  and  grateful  nature  expands  to  affec- 
tionate interest,  as  a  flower  to  the  sunshine. 

The  Doctor  has  a  certain  intellectual  fervor,  which 
quickens  the  flow  of  his  thought  and  language,  and 
enables  him  to  lead  you,  willingly  fascinated,  along 
the  road  he  chooses  to  walk  in  for  the  time.  When 
Harry  is  drawn  out  of  his  usual  modest  reserve  to 
maintain  a  position,  his  concentrated  enthusiasm 
sometimes  gives  to  a  few  words,  spoken  in  his  calm, 
resolute  voice,  the  effect  of  a  masterly  eloquence. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  17 

These  words  pass  into  your  heart  to  become  a  part 
of  its  possessions. 

I  think  I  never  fully  understood  the  meaning 
of  the  expression  personal  influence,  until  I  knew 
Harry  Dudley.  What  a  divine  gift  it  is,  when  of 
the  force  and  quality  of  his !  What  a  bright  line 
his  life-stream  will  lead  through  the  happy  region  it 
is  to  bless !  And  he  holds  this  magical  power  so 
unconsciously!  Here  is  another  point  of  contrast 
between  him  and  his  friend.  Dr.  Borrow  is  very 
sensible  of  all  his  advantages,  and  would  be  sur- 
prised, if  others  were  insensible  to  them.  No  one 
can  do  him  this  displeasure ;  his  merits  and  acquire- 
ments must  be  manifest  on  first  acquaintance.  But 
Harry  Dudley, — you  do  not  think  of  asking  whether 
he  has  this  or  that  talent  or  accomplishment.  You 
feel  what  he  is,  and  love  him  for  it,  before  you 
know  whether  he  has  anything. 

These  two  companions,  so  different,  are  yet  not 
ill-assorted.  Harry's  simplicity  and  strength  to- 
gether prevent  Ijjta  from  being  injured  by  his 
friend's  love  of  domination,  which  might  give  um- 
brage to  a  more  self-conscious,  or  overbear  a  weaker 
man  ;  his  frankness  and  courage  only  make  his 
esteem  of  more  value  to  the  Doctor,  who,  with  all 
his  tendency  to  the  despotic,  is  manly  and  loves 
manliness. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  write  down  for  you  any  of 
2 


18  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

the  Doctor's  brilliant  dissertations.  You  will  know 
him  some  time,  I  hope,  and  he  will  do  himself  a  jus- 
tice I  could  not  do  him.  Harry  you  must  know. 
He  will  go  to  see  you  on  his  way  home,  and,  if  he 
does  not  find  you,  will  make  a  visit  to  you  the  ob- 
ject of  a  special  journey.  He  will  be  a  new  bond 
between  us.  We  shall  watch  his  course  together. 
It  will  not,  it  cannot,  disappoint  us  ;  for  "  spirits  are 
not  finely  touched,  but  to  fine  issues." 

They  are  gone.  We  have  promised  each  other 
that  this  parting  shall  not  be  the  final  one.  And 
yet  my  heart  was  heavy  to-day  at  noon.  When 
the  gate  fell  to  after  they  had  passed  out,  it  seemed 
to  me  the  sound  had  in  it  something  of  determined 
and  conclusive.  I  rebuked  the  regret  almost  before 
it  had  made  itself  felt.  Dudley  is  going  out  into 
the  world,  which  has  so  much  need  of  men  like  him, 
true,  brave,  steadfast.  I  can  have  no  fear  or  anxiety 
for  him.  He  must  be  safe  everywhere  in  God's 
universe.  Do  not  all  things  work  together  for  good 
to  those  that  love  Him  ? 


SATURDAY  EVENING,  April  6,  1844. 

MY  date  ought  to  be  March  30th,  for  I  have 
been  living  over  again  to-day  the  scenes  of  a  week 
ago,  and  in  my  twilight  talk  with  my  mother  it 
was  last  Saturday  that  was  reviewed,  instead  of 
this. 

Last  Saturday !  The  friends  who  now  seem  to 
belong  to  us,  as  if  we  had  never  done  without  them, 
were  then  new  acquisitions.  The  Doctor  we  had 
not  yet  made  out.  How  bright  and  pure  that  morn- 
ing was  !  I  was  up  early,  or  thought  I  was,  until 
I  entered  our  little  parlor,  which  I  had  expected  to 
find  cheerless  with  the  disorder  that  had  made  it 
cheerful  the  evening  before.  But  Tabitha,  watch- 
ful against  surprises,  had  it  in  receiving- trim.  She 
was  giving  it  the  last  touches  as  I  entered.  I  had 
heard  no  sound  from  my  mother's  little  chamber, 
which  my  present  one  adjoins,  and  had  been  careful 
in  my  movements,  thinking  her  not  yet  awake. 
But  here  she  was  already  in  her  place  on  the 
couch,  wearing  a  look  of  pleased  solicitude,  which 
I  understood.  I  was  not  myself  wholly  free  from 
hospitable  cares.  Selden  had  been  so  exact  in  fore- 
warning me  of  Dr.  Sorrow's  tastes  and  habits,  that 
in  the  midst  of  my  anticipations  intruded  a  little 


20  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

prosaic  anxiety  about  the  breakfast.  My  mother, 
perhaps,  shared  it.  Tabitha  did  not.  She  heard 
some  officious  suggestions  of  mine  with  a  lofty  indif- 
ference. The  event  justified  her.  How  important 
she  was,  and  how  happy  !  How  considerately,  yet 
how  effectively,  she  rang  the  great  bell !  I  did  not 
know  it  capable  of  such  tones.  When  it  summoned 
us,  Harry  was  absent.  The  Doctor  and  I  took  our 
places  at  the  table  without  him.  My  mother  made 
his  apology :  he  must  have  been  very  tired  by  his 
long  walk  the  day  before,  and  had  probably  over- 
slept himself.  "  Not  he  !  "  cried  the  Doctor,  with 
energy,  as  if  repelling  a  serious  accusation.  "  It 's 
your  breakfast "  —  he  pointed  to  the  clock  —  "  was 
ready  four  minutes  too  soon.  I  Ve  known  two 
punctual  men  in  my  life,  and  Harry 's  one  of  them. 
He's  never  two  minutes  after  the  time,  nor  two 
minutes  before  it." 

The  Doctor  had  hardly  done  speaking  when 
Harry's  step  was  heard.  It  was  always  the  same, 
and  always  gave  the  same  sensation  of  a  joy  in 
prospect.  Nor  did  it  ever  deceive.  Dr.  Borrow's 
good-morning  was  very  hearty.  Harry  had  arrived 
just  one  minute  before  the  time.  If  he  had  come 
a  minute  earlier,  or  three  minutes  later,  I  do  not 
know  how  it  might  have  been,  for  the  Doctor  does 
not  like  to  be  put  in  the  wrong. 

Harry  brought  in  a  bouquet  for  my  mother.     He 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  21 

did  not  fail  in  this  attention  a  single  morning  while 
he  was  here.  I  could  not  but  sometimes  think  of 
her  who  missed  this  little  daily  offering. 

I  had  determined  beforehand  to  give  myself  en- 
tirely to  Dr.  Borrow  during  the  time  of  his  visit. 
I  have  often  regretted  the  hours  my  farm  took  from 
you.  I  had  forewarned  Hans  of  my  intention  of 
allowing  myself  a  vacation,  and  had  arranged  for 
the  boys  some  work  which  did  not  require  over- 
sight. They  were  to  take  hold  of  it,  without  fur- 
ther notice,  as  soon  as  the  distinguished  stranger 
arrived.  I  could  therefore  give  myself  up  with  an 
easy  mind  to  the  prolonged  pleasures  of  the  break- 
fast-table. The  Doctor  was  in  excellent  spirits,  — 
full  of  anecdote  and  of  argument.  I  was  very  near 
being  drawn  into  a  controversy  more  than  once ; 
but  I  was  more  willing  to  listen  to  him  than  to  my- 
self, and  avoided  it  successfully.  Harry  was  in  the 
same  peaceful  disposition,  but  was  not  so  fortu- 
nate. 

A  subject  of  difference  between  the  friends,  which 
seems  to  be  a  standing  one,  is  the  character  of  the 
French.  How  did  the  Doctor  bring  it  on  the  table 
that  morning  ?  I  think  it  was  a-propos  of  the  coffee. 
He  praised  it  and  compared  it  with  Paris  coffee, 
which  he  did  not  dispraise.  But,  once  landed  in 
France,  that  he  should  expatiate  there  for  a  time 
was  of  course  ;  and  he  found  himself,  as  it  appeared, 


22  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

in  a  favorite  field  of  animadversion.  He  began  with 
some  general  reflection,  —  I  forget  what ;  but,  from 
the  tone  in  which  it  was  given,  I  understood  per- 
fectly that  it  was  a  glove  thrown  down  to  Harry. 
It  was  not  taken  up ;  and  the  Doctor,  after  a  little 
defiant  pause,  went  forward.  He  drew  highly  col- 
ored sketches  of  the  Gaul  and  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
Harry  simply  abstained  from  being  amused.  Dr. 
Borrow  passed  to  his  individual  experiences.  It 
appeared,  that,  notwithstanding  the  light  regard  in 
which  he  held  the  French,  he  had  done  them  the 
honor  to  -pass  several  years  in  their  country.  This 
intimate  acquaintance  had  only  given  him  the  fairer 
opportunity  of  making  a  comparison  which  was  en- 
tirely to  the  advantage  of  the  race  he  himself  rep- 
resented. He  declared,  that,  walking  about  among 
the  population  of  Paris,  he  felt  himself  on  quite 
another  scale  and  of  quite  another  clay.  Harry 
here  suggested  that  perhaps  a  Frenchman  in  Lon- 
don, or  in  one  of  our  cities,  might  have  the  same 
feeling. 

"  He  can't,  —  he  can't,  if  he  would.  No  race 
dreams  of  asserting  superiority  over  the  Anglo- 
Saxon,  —  least  of  all  the  French." 

"  If  the  French  do  not  assert  their  superiority," 
Harry  answered,  laughing,  "it  is  because  they  are 
ignorant  that  it  has  been  questioned." 

"  That  gives  the   measure  of  their  ignorance ; 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  23 

and  they  take  care  to  maintain  it :  a  Frenchman 
never  learns  a  foreign  language." 

"Because  —  as  I  once  heard  a  Frenchman  say — 
foreigners  pay  him  the  compliment  of  learning  his." 

The  Doctor  burst  out  upon  French  vanity. 

"  At  least  you  will  admit  that  it  is  a  quiet  one," 
Harry  replied.  "  The  French  are  content  with 
their  own  good  opinion.  The  tribute  that  foreign^ 
ers  pay  them  is  voluntary." 

The  Doctor  arraigned  those  who  foster  the  con- 
ceit of  the  French,  first  by  trying  to  copy  them  and 
then  by  failing  in  it.  He  was  very  entertaining  on 
this  head.  Neither  Harry  nor  I  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  remind  him  that  the  pictures  he  drew  of 
the  French  and  their  imitators  did  not  precisely 
illustrate  Anglo-Saxon  superiority.  He  told  the 
origin  of  several  little  French  customs,  which, 
founded  simply  in  motives  of  economy  or  conven- 
ience, have  been  superstitiously  adopted,  without 
any  such  good  reason,  and  even  made  a  test,  of 
breeding,  by  weak-minded  persons  in  England  and 
this  country.  No  one  took  up  the  defence  of  those 
unfortunates,  but  the  Doctor  was  not  satisfied  with 
this  acquiescence.  He  had  an  uneasy  sense  that 
his  advantage  in  the  encounter  with  Harry  had  not 
been  decisive.  He  soon  returned  to  the  old  field. 
Harry  continued  to  parry  his  attacks  playfully  for  a 
time,  but  at  last  said  seriously,  — 


24  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

"  Doctor,  I  know  you  are  not  half  in  earnest ; 
but  if  I  hear  ill  spoken  of  France,  without  replying, 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  not  as  true  to  my  friends  there 
as  I  know  they  are  to  me.  One  of  the  best  and 
noblest  men  I  ever  knew  is  a  Frenchman.  This  is 
not  to  argue  with  you.  You  know  better  than 
anybody  what  the  world  owes  to  France.  If  you 
were  to  take  up  my  side,  you  would  find  a  great 
deal  more  to  say  for  it  than  I  could.  I  wish  you 
would ! " 

A  pause  followed,  long  enough  for  the  bright, 
earnest  look  with  which  Harry  made  this  appeal  to 
fade  from  his  face.  As  I  did  not  think  there  was 
much  hope  of  the  Doctor's  taking  the  part  pro- 
posed to  him,  at  least  until  he  should  find  himself 
in  company  with  persons  who  professed  the  opinions 
he  was  now  maintaining,  I  tried  to  divert  him  to 
another  topic,  and  succeeded ;  but  it  was  only  to 
bring  about  a  yet  warmer  passage  between  him  and 
his  friend.  I  was  not  sorry,  however ;  for  this  time 
the  subject  was  one  that  interested  me  strongly. 
He  had  referred,  the  evening  before,  to  some  dan- 
gerous adventures  Harry  and  he  had  had  among  the 
mountains  of  Mantaw  County,  which  they  crossed, 
going  from  Eden  to  Cyclops.  I  now  asked  him  for 
the  details.  He  turned  to  me  at  once,  and  entered 
upon  the  story  with  great  spirit.  I  am  familiar 
with  the  region  in  which  the  scene  was  laid,  but, 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  25 

listening  to  him,  it  took  a  new  aspect.  I  believe 
those  hills  will  always  be  higher  for  me  hence- 
forth, —  the  glens  deeper  and  darker  ;  I  shall  hear 
new  voices  in  the  rush  of  the  torrents  and  the  roar 
of  the  pines.  Harry  listened  admiringly  too,  until 
the  Doctor,  brought  by  the  course  of  his  narrative 
to  the  services  of  a  certain  slave-guide,  named  Jonas, 
took  a  jocular  tone,  seemingly  as  much  amused  by 
the  black  man's  acuteness  and  presence  of  mind  as 
he  might  have  been  by  the  tricks  of  an  accom- 
plished dog. 

"  A  capital  fellow  !  "  interposed  Harry,  with  em- 
phasis. 

"  He  showed  himself  intelligent  and  faithful,  cer- 
tainly. I  sent  his  master  a  good  account  of  him. 
He  did  his  duty  by  us."  This  in  the  Doctor's 
mildest  tone. 

The  answer  was  in  Harry's  firmest:  —  "His  duty 
as  a  man.  It  was  real,  hearty  kindness  that  he 
showed  us.  We  owe  him  a  great  deal.  I  am  not 
sure  that  we  did  not  owe  him  our  lives  that  dark 
night.  I  regard  him  as  a  friend." 

"  Your  other  friends  are  flattered.  —  It  is  curious 
how  these  negrophiles  betray  themselves  "  :  —  the 
Doctor  had  turned  to  me  ;  —  "  they  show  that  they 
think  of  the  blacks  just  as  we  do",  by  their  admira- 
tion when  they  meet  one  who  shows  signs  of  intel- 
ligence and  good  feeling."  He  looked  at  Harry, 


26  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

but  in  vain.  "  Here  Harry,  now,  has  been  falling 
into  transports  all  along  the  road."  Harry  kept  his 
eyes  on  the  table,  but  the  Doctor  was  not  to  be 
balked.  "  Confess  now,  confess  you  have  been 
surprised  —  and  a  good  deal  more  surprised  than  I 
was  —  to  find  common  sense  and  humanity  in 
black  men  !  " 

"  No,  not  in  black  men.  I  have  been  surprised 
to  find  not  only  talent  and  judgment,  but  dignity 
and  magnanimity,  in  slaves." 

"  You  must  find  the  system  not  altogether  a 
,bad  one  which  has  developed  such  specimens  of 
the  human  being,  —  out  of  such  material,  above 
all." 

"  You  must  admit  that  the  race  is  a  strong  and 
a  high  one  which  has  not  been  utterly  debased  by 
such  a  system,  —  if  it  is  to  be  called  a  system.  I 
only  wish  our  own  race  " 

"  Showed  an  equal  power  of  resistance  ?  " 

"  That  was  what  I  was  going  to  say." 

"  You  might  have  said  it.  Yes,  —  the  whites  are 
the  real  sufferers." 

"  I  stopped  because  I  remembered  instances  of 
men  who  have  resisted  nobly." 

"  I  am  glad  you  can  do  justice  to  them.  I  thought 
you  did  not  believe  in  humane  slaveholders." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  them." 

"  Ah !  to  be  sure  not !     My  friend  Harvey,  who 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  27 

entertained  us  so  hospitably,  is  a  bad  man,  1  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  A  mistaken  man." 

"  That  is  to  be  proved  ;  he  is  trying  to  work  out 
a  difficult  problem." 

"  He  is  attempting  an  impossible  compromise." 

"  Compromise  !  Word  of  fear  to  the  true  New- 
Englander !  Compromise  ?  He  is  trying  to  recon- 
cile his  own  comfort  with  that  of  his  laborers,  I 
suppose  you  mean." 

"  He  is  trying  to  reconcile  injustice  with  human- 
ity." 

"  See  the  stern  old  Puritan  vein  !  I  doubt  wheth- 
er his  ancestor,  the  model  of  Massachusetts  govern- 
ors, ever  carried  a  stiffer  upper  lip."  And  the 
Doctor  surveyed  Harry  with  a  look  from  which  he 
could  not  exclude  a  certain  softening  of  affectionate 
admiration.  "  And  he,  a  living  exemplification  of 
the  persistence  of  race,  is  a  stickler  for  the  equality 
of  all  mankind !  It  is  hard  for  one  of  that  strict 
line  to  bend  his  views  to  circumstances,"  the  Doc- 
tor went  on,  in  a  more  indulgent  tone. .  "  Harry, 
my  boy,  you  are  in  a  new  latitude.  You  must 
accept  another  standard.  You  cannot  try  things 
here  by  the  weights  and  measures  of  the  Puri- 
tans of  the  North.  But  who  are  your  examples 
of  resistance,  though  ?  " 

"  The  Puritans  of  the  South.      The  men  here 


28  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

who  have  but  one  standard,  —  that  of  right.  The 
men  here  who  are  true  to  the  principle  which  our 
country  represents,  and  by  which  it  is  to  live." 

"  What  principle  ?  " 

"  That  the  laws  of  man  must  be  founded  on  the 
law  of  God." 

"  You  mean,  to  be  explicit,  such  men  as  Judge 
Henley  of  Virginia,  Dr.  Kirwin  of  South  Carolina, 
and,  above  all,  Shaler  of  this  State  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Who,  instead  of  living  with  the  people  among 
whom  their  lot  had  been  cast,  and  protecting  and 
improving  them,  scattered  them  to  the  four  winds 
of  heaven,  and  all  for  the  comfort  of  their  own 
sickly  consciences !  " 

"  Charles  Shaler  does  not  look  like  a  man  of  a 
sickly  conscience." 

The  Doctor  could  not  forbear  smiling  at  the  im- 
age Harry  brought  before  him.  He  was  beginning 
to  answer,  but  stopped  short  and  turned  to  me  with 
a  look  of  apology. 

"  The  subject  is  ill-chosen,"  he  said ;  "  I  do  not 
know  how  we  came  upon  it ;  though,  indeed,  we 
are  always  coming  upon  it.  We  have  sworn  a 
truce  a  dozen  times,  but  the  war  breaks  out  again 
when  we  are  least  expecting  it." 

"  The  subject  cannot  be  more  interesting  to  you 
than  it  is  to  me,"  I  answered. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  29 

"  But  your  interest  in  it  may  be  of  a  different  sort 
from  ours." 

"It  is  quite  as  impartial.  I  am  not  a  slave- 
holder." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  " 

The  Doctor's  voice  betrayed  that  there  was  pleas- 
ure in  his  surprise,  but,  except  in  this  involuntary 
way,  he  did  not  express  it.  He  went  on  in  his 
former  tone. 

"  Well,  that  is  more  than  Harry  here  can  say. 
Since  he  has  been  in  your  State,  he  has  become 
master,  by  right  of  purchase,  of  a  human  soul." 

I  looked  at  Harry. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  I  have  made  myself 
my  brother's  keeper." 

"  And  very  literally  of  a  soul,"  the  Doctor  con- 
tinued. "  The  body  was  merely  thrown  in  as  an 
inconsiderable  part  of  the  bargain.  We  were  on 
the  road  from  Omocqua  to  Tenpinville,  where  we 
meant  to  dine.  Harry  was  a  little  ahead.  I  was 
walking  slowly,  looking  along  the  side  of  the  road 
for  what  I  might  find,  when  I  heard,  in  front  of  us 
and  coming  towards  us,  a  tramping  and  a  shuffling 
and  a  clanking  that  I  knew  well  enough  for  the 
sound  of  a  slave-coffle  on  the  move.  I  did  not  lift 
my  head ;  I  am  not  curious  of  such  sights.  But 
presently  I  heard  Harry  calling,  and  in  an  impera- 
tive tone  that  he  has  sometimes,  though,  perhaps, 


30  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

you  would  not  think  it.  I  looked  up,  upon  that, 
and  saw  him  supporting  in  his  arms  a  miserable 
stripling,  who  was  falling,  fainting,  out  of  the  come. 
Harry  was  hailing  the  slave-trader,  who  brought  up 
the  rear  of  the  train  on  horseback.  I  foresaw  vexa- 
tion, and  made  haste.  The  cavalier  got  there  first, 
though.  By  the  time  I  came  up,  he  had  dis- 
mounted, and  Harry  and  he  were  in  treaty,  or  at 
least  in  debate.  It  was  a  picture  !  The  poor 
wretch  they  were  parleying  over  was  lying  with  his 
wasted,  lead-colored  face  on  Harry's  shoulder,  but 
was  still  held  by  the  leg  to  his  next  man,  who  was 
scowling  at  him  as  if  he  thought  the  boy  had  fainted 
only  to  make  the  shackles  bite  sharper  into  the 
sore  flesh  of  his  comrade.  Harry  held  his  prize  in 
a  way  which  showed  he  did  not  mean  to  part  with  it. 
1  Name  your  price  !  Name  your  own  price  ! '  were 
the  first  words  I  heard.  It  seemed  the  slave-dealer 
was  making  difficulties.  I  thought  he  would  jump 
at  the  chance  of  getting  rid  of  what  was  only  a 
burden,  and  plainly  could  never  be  anything  else  to 
anybody  ;  but  no  ;  he  said  he  could  not  sell  the 
boy,  and  seemed  to  mean  it.  Harry  is  too  much 
used  to  having  his  own  way  to  give  it  up  very 
easily,  but  I  don't  know  whether  he  would  have 
got  it  this  time,  if  I  had  not  interfered  with  my 
remonstrances :  — 

"  '  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  ?    Where 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  31 

are  you  going  to  take  him  ?  Who 's  to  be  his  nurse 
on  the  road  ?  ' 

"  I  meant  to  bring  Harry  to  his  senses.  I  only 
brought  the  slave-dealer  to  his. 

"  '  Do  you  belong  in  this  State  ?  '  asked  he,  grow- 
ing reasonable  as  he  saw  a  reasonable  man  to  deal 
with. 

"  '  No ;  in  Massachusetts.' 

"  '  Do  you  mean  to  take  him  off  there  ?  ' 

" '  Yes ! '  cried  Harry,  without  giving  me  a  chance 
to  answer. 

"  '  How  soon  ?  ' 

"  '  In  a  few  weeks.' 

"  '  And  what  will  you  do  with  him  in  the  mean 
while  ? ' 

"  Harry  seemed  now  to  remember  that  I  was  a 
party  concerned.  He  turned  to  me  with  a  depre- 
cating and  inquiring  look,  but  I  was  not  prepared 
to  make  any  suggestion. 

"  '  If  you  care  enough  about  having  the  boy  to 
pay  part  of  his  price  in  trouble,'  says  the  dealer, 
'  perhaps  we  may  manage  it.  I  bought  him  with 
conditions.  If  I  sell  him  to  you,  I  make  them  over 
to  you,  too.  If  you  '11  engage  to  take  him  as  far  as 
Omocqua  to-day,  and  never  bring  him,  or  let  him 
be  brought,  within  twenty,  miles  of  Tenpinville  in 
any  direction,  you  shall  have  him  for  fifty  dollars  ; 
that  will  give  me  back  what  he  's  cost  me.  I  don't 


82  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

want  to  make  anything  on  him.  I  only  took  him 
to  oblige.' 

"  I  knew  by  experience  that  there  was  no  use  in 
opposing  Harry  in  anything  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  about.  I  looked  grim,  but  said  nothing.  So 
the  bargain  was  struck ;  the  money  was  paid  ;  the 
boy  unfettered.  The  slave-dealer  moved  on  with 
his  drove,  leaving  us  his  parting  words  of  encour- 
agement, — 

"  '  If  he  lives,  he  '11  be  worth  something  to  you.' 

"  And  there  we  were  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
with  a  dying  boy  on  our  hands. 

"  '  If  he  lives  ! '  Harry's  look  answered,  — '  He 
will  live  !  ' 

"  For  my  own  part,  I  hoped  it  very  little,  and 
was  not  sure  that  I  ought  to  hope  it  at  all. 

"  It  was  my  turn  to  fume  now ;  for  Harry,  as 
soon  as  he  had  carried  his  point,  was  as  calm  as  a 
clock.  He  had  everything  planned  out.  I  was  to 
go  back  to  Quickster  and  hire  some  sort  of  wagon 
to  take  our  patient  to  Omocqua,  where  Harry  had 
promised  to  have  him  before  night.  I  had  permis- 
sion to  stay  at  Quickster,  if  I  chose,  until  he  came 
back,  —  or  to  go  on  to  Tenpinville,  or  even  to 
Harvey's,  without  him.  But  I  had  heard,  since  I 
left  Omocqua,  of  a  remarkable  cave,  not  five  miles 
from  there,  which  had  some  points  of  interest  for 
me.  I  had  had  half  a  mind  to  propose  to  Harry  to 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  33 

go  back  and  see  it  before  we  met  with  this  adven- 
ture. So,  as  I  must  humor  him  at  any  rate,  I 
thought  it  as  well  to  do  it  with  a  good  grace.  I 
walked  off  to  Quickster,  got  my  wagon,  drove  back, 
and  found  our  godsend  asleep,  with  Harry  watch- 
ing by  him  like  a  miser  over  his  treasure.  We 
lifted  him  into  the  wagon  without  waking  him,  — 
he  was  no  great  weight,  —  and  got  him  safe  to  the 
hotel  we  had  left  in  the  morning. 

"  Harry,  when  he  was  making  his  purchase,  had 
his  wits  sufficiently  about  him  to  require  the  means 
of  proving  his  title  in  case  of  question.  The  dealer 
promised  to  set  all  right  at  Omocqua.  I  had  doubts 
whether  we  should  meet  him  again  ;  but  Harry  had 
none,  and  was  right.  The  man  arrived  the  next  morn- 
ing with  his  convoy,  found  us  out,  and  gave  Harry 
a  regular  bill  of  sale.  Being  now  twenty  miles 
from  Tenpinville,  he  was  somewhat  more  commu- 
nicative than  he  had  been  in  the  morning.  It  ap- 
peared the  sick  boy  was  a  great  musical  genius. 
He  could  sing  anything  he  had  ever  heard,  and 
many  things  that  never  had  been  heard  before  he 
sang  them.  He  played  upon  the  piano  without  any 
instruction  except  what  he  had  got  by  listening 
under  the  windows.  Indeed,  he  could  make  any 
instrument  that  was  put  into  his  hands,  after  a  little 
feeling  about,  do  whatever  he  wanted  of  it.  But 
he  had  accidentally  received  a  blow  on  the  chest 
3 


34  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

that  had  spoiled  his  voice,  and  had  so  injured  his 
health  besides,  that  his  master,  a  tender-hearted 
man,  couldn't  bear  to  see  him  about.  The  family, 
tender-hearted  too,  could  n't  bear  to  see  him  sold. 
So  the  master,  to  spare  pain  all  round,  decided  that 
the  boy  should  disappear  silently,  and  that  it  should 
be  understood  in  the  house  and  neighborhood  that 
he  had  been  enticed  away  by  an  amateur  from  the 
North,  who  hoped  to  cure  him  and  make  a  fortune 
out  of  his  talent. 

"  '  How  came  the  master's  sensibility  to  take  such 
a  different  turn  from  that  of  the  rest  of  the  family  ? ' 
I  asked,  —  and  drew  out  that  the  boy,  being  a  ge- 
nius, had  some  of  the  ways  of  one,  and  was  at  times 
excessively  provoking.  He  had  silent  fits,  when  he 
would  sit  dreaming,  moving  his  lips,  but  making  no 
sound.  There  was  no  use  in  trying  to  rouse  him. 
You  might  have  shaken  him  to  pieces  without  his 
soul's  giving  the  least  sign  of  being  in  his  body. 
Not  only  this,  but,  sometimes,  when  he  did  sing, 
he  would  n't  sing  well,  though  perhaps  it  was  just 
when  he  was  most  wanted.  There  were  people 
he  never  would  sing  before,  if  he  could  help  it ; 
and  when  he  was  obliged  to,  he  did  himself  no 
credit.  Some  of  his  caprices  of  this  kind  were 
insupportable.  His  master  was  only  too  indulgent ; 
but  one  day,  it  seems,  the  provocation  was  too  much 
for  him.  In  a  moment  of  anger,  he  flung  the  un- 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  35 

lucky  boy  down  the  door-steps,  or  over  a  bank,  or 
out  of  the  open  window,  I  forget  which.  Either  the 
push  on  the  chest  or  the  shock  of  the  fall  did  a 
harm  that  was  not  meant.  The  master  was  a  good 
man,  and  was  so  accounted.  He  reproached  him- 
self, whenever  he  saw  the  ailing  boy,  and  felt  as 
if  others  reproached  him.  Better  out  of  sight  and 
out  of  mind. 

"  So  Harry  became  the  owner,  or,  as  he  says,  the 
keeper,  of  a  fragment  of  humanity  distinguished 
from  the  mass  by  the  name  of  Orphy :  Orphy  for 
Orpheus,  I  suppose ;  though  Harry  is  modest  for 
him,  and  calls  him  Orfano.  He  has  splendid  vis- 
ions for  his  prote'ge',  nevertheless.  He  sees  in  him 
the  very  type  and  representative  of  the  African. 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  were  looking  forward  to 
the  rehabilitation  of  the  race  through  him.  He  is 
to  be  a  Mozart,  a  Beethoven,  a  Bach,  or,  perhaps, 
something  beyond  either.  The  world  is  to  listen 
and  be  converted." 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  brought  him  here,"  I 
said. 

"  Your  house  is  within  the  twenty  miles,  and  so 
is  Harvey's,  or  we  should  have  taken  him  on  there 
with  us.  But  he  is  well  off  where  he  is.  Harry, 
by  the  aid  of  our  innkeeper,  —  a  Northern  man,  by 
the  way,  —  installed  him  in  a  comfortable  home  at 
Omocqua.  We  are  to  take  him  up  there  on  our 


36  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

return.  "We  expect  to  be  there  again  on  the 
eighteenth  of  next  month." 

"  So  soon  ?  "  I  exclaimed  ;  for,  with  the  Doctor's 
words  the  pang  of  parting  fell  on  me  prematurely. 

"  We  mean  to  stay  with  you,  if  you  want  us  so 
long,  until  the  fifth.  We  have  a  few  excursions  to 
make  yet ;  but  we  shah1  guide  ourselves  so  as  to 
reach  Omocqua  at  the  appointed  time." 

"  Meet  us  there,"  cried  Harry.  "  Meet  us 
there  in  fifteen  days  from  the  time  we  leave  you. 
Let  us  keep  the  nineteenth  of  April  there  to- 
gether." 

My  mother,  who  had  not  hitherto  taken  any  part 
in  the  conversation,  spoke  now  to  express  her  warm 
approbation  of  the  plan.  This  was  all  that  was 
wanting.  The  project  was  ratified.  My  happiness 
was  freed  again  from  the  alloy  of  insecurity  which 
had  begun  to  mingle  with  it. 

The  Doctor  divined  my  feeling,  and  smiling 
pleasantly,  — "  Our  leave  -  taking  will  not  be  so 
hard ;  it  will  be  au  revoir,  not  adieu. 

Harry  was  the  first  to  leave  the  breakfast-table. 
He  had  made  acquaintance  with  Karl  and  Fritz 
that  morning,  and  had  promised  to  help  them  on  a 
drag  they  were  getting  up  for  hauling  brush.  He 
was  to  join  us  again  in  two  hours,  and  we  were  to 
have  a  walk  to  Ludlow's  Woods. 

"  He  »has  been  to  the  post-office  this  morning  !  " 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  37 

cried  the  Doctor,  as  soon  as  Harry  was  out  of  hear- 
ing. It  was  evident  that  my  mother's  unacceptable 
suggestion  still  rested  on  his  mind.  "  He  has  been 
to  the  post-office  :  that  was  it !  You  remember  he 
asked  you  last  night  how  far  to  the  nearest  one  ? 
The  first  thing  he  does,  when  he  arrives  in  a  place, 
is  to  inquire  about  the  means  of  forwarding  letters." 

"  How  he  must  be  missed  in  his  home  !  "  my 
mother  said. 

"  Ah,  indeed !  He  is  an  only  son.  But,  con- 
trary to  the  custom  of  only  sons,  he  thinks  as  much 
of  his  home  as  his  home  does  of  him.  He  has  not 
failed  to  write  a  single  day  of  the  thirty -five  we 
have  been  travelling  together.  His  letters  cannot 
have  been  received  regularly  of  late  ;  but  that  is 
no  fault  of  ours." 

"  His  parents  must  be  very  anxious,  when  he  is 
so  far  from  them,"  said  my  mother. 

"  He  knows  how  to  take  care  of  himself,  —  and  of 
me  too,"  the  Doctor  added,  laughing.  "  I  thought 
that  on  this  journey  I  was  to  have  charge  of  him, 
but  it  turned  out  quite  the  other  way.  He  assumed 
the  business  department  from  the  first.  I  acquiesced, 
thinking  he  would  learn  something,  but  expecting 
to  be  obliged  to  come  to  his  aid  from  time  to  time. 
I  think  it  wrong  for  a  man  to  submit  to  imposition. 
I  never  do.  But  Harry,  open-hearted  and  lavish, 
—  I  thought  anybody  could  take  him  in.  I  did  not 
find  that  anybody  wanted  to." 


88  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

"  I  can  understand,"  said  my  mother,  "  that,  with 
his  trusting  disposition  and  his  force  of  character 
together,  he  should  always  find  people  do  what  he 
expects  of  them." 

"  You  are  right,  — you  are  quite  right."  —  The 
Doctor  seldom  contradicted  my  mother,  and  very 
considerately  when  he  did.  —  "  It  is  not  your  gen- 
erous men  that  tempt  others  to  overreach,  but  your 
uncertain  ones.  It  seems  he  carries  about  with  him 
something  of  the  nature  of  a  divining-rod,  that 
makes  men's  hearts  reveal  what  of  gold  they  have 
in  them.  I  have  known  a  churlish-looking  fellow, 
who  has  come  to  his  door  on  purpose  to  warn 
us  thirsty  wayfarers  off  from  it,  soften  when  his 
eye  met  Harry's,  urge  us  in  as  if  he  were  afraid 
of  losing  us,  do  his  best  for  us,  and  then  try  to  re- 
fuse our  money  when  we  went  away.  Well,  if  son 
of  mine  could  bring  but  one  talent  into  the  world 
with  him,  let  it  be  that  for  being  loved ;  it  is  worth 
all  others  put  together." 

"  How  many  does  it  not  include  ?  "  asked  my 
mother. 

"  Truly,  there  is  perhaps  more  justice  in  the 
world  than  appears  on  the  outside." 

I  found  this  the  place  to  put  in  a  little  apology 
for  Tabitha,  who  had  persisted  in  treating  Harry 
with  marked  distinction,  although  I  had  tried  to  re- 

7  O 

mind  her  of  the  elder  guest's  claims  to  precedence 
by  redoubling  my  attentions  to  him. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  39 

"  Oh,  I  'm  used  to  it,  I  'm  used  to  it,"  cried  the 
Doctor,  cutting  short  my  apologies  very  good-hu- 
moredly.  "  Wherever  we  go,  people  treat  him  as 
if  he  had  done  them  some  great  service,  or  was 
going  to  do  them  one.  But  I  find  my  account  in 
his  good  reception.  I  reap  the  practical  advan- 
tages. And  then  I  am  something  of  a  fool  about 
Harry  myself ;  so  I  can  hardly  blame  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Think  of  his  drawing  me  into  com- 
plicity in  that  affair  of  the  negro  Orpheus !  I  made 
a  pretence  to  myself  that  I  wanted  to  see  a  foolish 
cave  at  Egerton,  just  to  excuse  my  weakness  in  hu- 
moring his  whims ;  but,  in  truth,  by  the  time  we 
were  well  on  the  road  to  Omocqua,  I  was  feeling  as 
if  the  welfare  of  the  world  depended  on  our  getting 
that  poor  wretch  safely  housed  there.  Well,  we 
shall  see  what  will  come  of  it !  I  remember,  when 
Harry  was  a  little  boy,  saying  to  him  once,  after 
seeing  him  bestow  a  great  deal  of  labor  in  accom- 
plishing a  work  not  very  important  in  older  eyes, 
'  Well,  Harry,  now  what  have  you  done,  after  all  ?  ' 
'  I  have  done  what  I  meant  to  do,'  said  the  child. 
I  am  so  used  now  to  seeing  Harry  do  what  he  means 
to  do,  that  even  in  this  case  I  can't  help  looking 
for  some  result,  —  though,  probably,  it  will  be  one 
not  so  important  in  my  view  as  in  his,  nor  worth  all 
that  may  be  spent  in  arriving  at  it. .  I  want  to  see 
him  once  fairly  engaged  in  some  steady  career  to 


40  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

which  he  will  give  himself  heart  and  soul,  as  he  does 
give  himself  to  what  he  undertakes ;  then  he  '11  have 
no  time  nor  thought  for  these  little  extravagances." 

"  Does  Harry  intend  to  take  a  profession  ?  " 

"  The  law,  I  hope.  He  will  study  it. in  any  case. 
This  makes  part  of  a  plan  he  formed  for  himself 
years  ago.  He  considers  the  study  of  law  as  a 
branch  of  the  study  of  history,  and  a  necessary  prep- 
aration for  the  writing  of  history,  —  his  dream -at 
present.  But  when  he  once  takes  hold  of  the 
law,  I  hope  he  will  stick  to  it." 

"  Harry  has  very  little  the  look  of  a  student." 

"  Yet  he  has  already  learned 

" '  To  scorn  deligfits  and  live  laborious  days.' 
But  he  has  measure  in  everything,  —  and  it  is  some- 
thing to  say  of  a  boy  of  his  ardent  temper.  He 
observes  the  balance  between  physical  and  mental 
exercise.  He  follows  the  counsel  Languet  gave  to 
Sir  Philip  Sidney,  —  to  '  take  care  of  his  health,  and 
not  be  like  one  who,  on  a  long  journey,  attends  to 
himself,  but  not  to  the  horse  that  is  to  carry  him.' ' 

"  Do  his  parents  wish  him  to  follow  the  law  ?  " 
my  mother  asked. 

"  They  wish  whatever  he  does.  It  seems  they 
hold  their  boy  something  sacred,  and  do  not  dare  to 
interfere  with  him.  But  I  wish  it.  The  law  is  the 
threshold  of  public  life.  I  want  to  see  him  in  his 
place." 


FIFTEEN    DATS.  41 

The  Doctor  sat  smiling  to  himself  for  a  little 
while,  nodded  his  head  once  or  twice,  and  then, 
fixing  his  clear,  cool  blue  eyes  on  my  face,  said,  in 
an  emphatic  voice,  — "  That  boy  will  make  his 
mark.  Depend  upon  it,  he  will  make  his  mark  in 
one  way  or  another !  "  A  shadow  fell  over  the 
eyes  ;  the  voice  was  lowered  :  —  "I  have  only  one 
fear  for  him.  It  is  that  he  may  throw  himself  away 
on  some  fanaticism." 

"  How  long  have  you  known  Harry  Dudley  ?  "  I 
asked,  when  the  pause  had  lasted  so  long  that  I 
thought  the  Doctor  would  not  begin  again  without 
being  prompted. 

"  All  his  life.  Our  families  are  connected  ;  —  not 
so  'nearly  by  blood  ;  but  they  have  run  down  side 
by  side  for  four  or  five  generations.  His  father  and 
I  pass  for  cousins.  We  were  in  college  together. 
He  was  my  Senior,  but  I  was  more  with  him  than 
with  any  of  my  own  classmates  until  he  was  grad- 
uated. He  married  very  soon  after,  and  then  his 
house  was  like  a  brother's  to  me.  I  went  abroad 
after  I  left  college,  and  was  gone  three  years. 
When  I  came  back,  we  took  things  up  just  where 
we  left  them.  Dudley  went  to  Europe  himself 
afterwards  with  his  family,  but  I  was  backwards 
and  forwards,  so  that  I  have  never  lost  sight  of 
them.  I  have  nobody  nearer  to  me." 

"I  was  surprised  to  learn,  from  what  you  said 


42  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

last  evening,  that  Harry  had  passed  a  good  deal  of 
time  in  Europe." 

The  Doctor  turned  upon  me  briskly.  Perhaps 
my  tone  may  have  implied  that  I  was  sorry  to 
learn  it. 

"  He  has  lost  nothing  by  that.  He  has  lost 
nothing  by  it,  but  that  fixed  stamp  of  place  and 
time  that  most  men  wear.  Though  I  don't  know 
whether  he  would  have  had  it  at  any  rate  :  he  was 
always  himself.  You  have  seen  some  shallow  fellow 
who  has  been  spoiled  for  living  at  home  by  a  few 
years  of  sauntering  and  lounging  about  Europe. 
But  rely  on  it,  he  who  comes  back  a  coxcomb 
went  out  one.  Never  fear  !  Harry  is  as  good  an 
American  as  if  he  had  not  been  away,  —  and  bet- 
ter. Living  abroad,  he  has  had  the  simplicity  to 
study  the  history  of  his  own  country  as  carefully  as  if 
it  had  been  a  foreign  one,  not  aware  that  it  is  with  us 
no  necessary  part  of  a  polite  education.  As  for  its 
institutions,  he  has  an  enthusiasm  for  them  that  I 
could  almost  envy  him  while  it  lasts,  though  I  know 
he  has  got  to  be  cured  of  it." 

"  How  long  was  he  abroad  ?  " 

"  More  than  seven  years." 

"  Was  he  with  his  parents  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  They  were  near  him.  His  home  was  always 
within  reach.  But  he  was  for  several  years  at  a 
large  school  in  Paris,  and  again  at  one  in  Germany. 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  43 

At  sixteen  he  had  done  with  school  and  took  his 
education  into  his  own  hands.  He  lived  at  home, 
but  his  parents  did  not  meddle  with  him,  except  to 
aid  him  to  carry  out  his  plans.  It  was  a  course 
that  would  not  answer  with  every  young  man,  per- 
haps ;  but  I  don't  know  that  any  other  would  have 
done  with  him.  He  is  one  to  cut  out  his  own  path. 
He  chose  not  only  his  own  studies,  but,  to  a  great 
extent,  his  own  acquaintances  ;  took  journeys  when 
he  pleased  and  as  he  pleased.  Wherever  he  was, 
with  whomever,  he  always  held  his  own  walk 
straight  and  firm.  You  would  not  think  that  boy 
had  seen  so  much  of  the  world  ?  " 

"  I  could  have  thought  he  had  been  carefully 
guarded  from  it,  and  shielded  almost  from  the  very 
knowledge  of  wrong." 

"  He  has  never  been  kept  out  of  danger  of  any 
kind ;  but  it  seems  there  was  none  anywhere  for 
him.  He  is  now,  as  you  say,  just  as  much  a  sim- 
ple, innocent  boy  as  if  he  were  nothing  more." 

"  His  wings  are  grown,  and  shed  off  evil  as  the 
birds'  do  rain." 

The  Doctor  started  as  this  voice  came  from  be- 
hind his  chair.  Tabitha,  who  had  disappeared  as 
soon  as  her  attendance  on  the  table  was  no  longer 
needed,  had  reentered  unobserved,  and  stood,  her 
basket  of  vegetables  poised  on  her  head,  absorbed 
in  our  conversation,  until  she  forgot  herself  into 
joining  in  it. 


SUNDAY,  April  7,  1844. 

THE  storm  which  has  been  gathering  since  Fri- 
day evening  came  on  last  night.  This  morning  the 
rain  pelts  heavily  against  the  windows.  This  is  not 
the  Easter-Sunday  I  was  looking  forward  to  when  I 
urged  Harry  Dudley  to  stay  for  it.  He  would  have 
been  glad  to  stay,  I  know ;  but  he  did  not  think  it 
right  to  ask  Dr.  Borrow  to  change  his  plans  again, 
and  merely  for  a  matter  of  pleasure.  When  I  ad- 
dressed the  Doctor  himself  on  the  subject,  he  showed 
me  a  paper  on  which  he  had  planned  out  occupation 
for  every  day  and  almost  for  every  hour  of  the 
two  weeks  that  were  to  pass  before  our  meeting  at 
Omocqua.  I  had  not  the  courage  to  remonstrate. 

I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  none  of  the  neigh- 
bors here  to-day.  But  the  table  is  set  out  with 
all  the  prettiest  things  the  house  affords,  ready  for 
the  collation  which  is  to  follow  the  morning  read- 
ing. This  is  a  munificence  we  allow  ourselves  at 
Christmas  and  Easter.  We  keep  ceremoniously 
and  heartily  the  chief  holy  days,  the  religious  and 
the  national.  In  your  large  cities,  where  sources 
of  emotion  and  instruction  are  open  on  every  hand, 
where  the  actual  day  is  so  full  and  so  animated 
that  it  is  conscious  of  wanting  nothing  outside 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  45 

of  itself,  it  is  not  strange,  perhaps,  that  men  should 
become  careless  of  these  commemorations  or  yield 
them  only  a  formal  regard.  Our  life  must  widen 
and  enrich  itself,  by  stretching  its  sympathies  and 
claims  far  beyond  its  material  limits.  We  cannot 
forego  our  part  in  the  sorrows  and  joys  of  universal 
humanity. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  me  to  find  that  Harry,  who 
has  lived  so  long  in  countries  where  the  public  ob- 
servance of  the  Christian  festivals  is  too  marked  to 
allow  even  the  indifferent  to  overlook  them,  remem- 
bers them  from  affection  as  well  as  by  habit.  When 
I  came  into  the  parlor,  early  last  Sunday  morning, 
I  saw  by  the  branches  over  the  windows  that  he 
had  not  forgotten  it  was  Palm-Sunday.  He  was 
sitting  on  the  doorstep  trimming  some  long  sprays 
of  a  beautiful  vine,  which  he  had  brought  from  the 
thicket.  As  soon  as  I  appeared,  he  called  on  me  to 
help  him  twine  them  round  the  engraving  of  the 
Transfiguration.  You  did  right  to  tell  me  to  bring 
that  engraving  down-stairs.  It  hangs  between  the 
windows.  I  have  made  a  simple  frame  for  it,  which 
answers  very  well ;  but  next  winter  I  am  going  to 
carve  out  quite  an  elaborate  one,  after  an  Italian 
pattern  which  Harry  has  sketched  for  me.  If  I 
could  think  that  you  would  ever  see  it ! 

Harry  and  I  had  a  walk  before  breakfast,  —  the 
first  of  the  early  morning  walks  that  were  after- 


46  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

wards  our  rule.  He  is  not  a  great  talker.  The 
sweet  modesty  of  his  nature  retains  its  sway  even 
in  the  most  familiar  moments.  He  is  earnest ; 
sometimes  impassioned ;  but  never  voluble,  never 
excited,  never  diffuse.  What  he  has  to  say  is  gen- 
erally put  in  the  form  of  simple  and  concise  state- 
ment or  suggestion ;  but  he  gives,  and  perhaps  for 
that  very  reason,  a  great  deal  to  be  thought  and  felt 
in  an  hour. 

The  bouquet  that  Harry  brought  in  that  morn- 
ing was  of  green  of  different  shades,  only  in  the  cen- 
tre there  were  a  few  delicate  wood-flowers. 

"  Has  Dr.  Borrow  seen  these  ? "  my  mother 
asked,  looking  at  them  with  pleasure. 

"  No,"  the  Doctor  answered  for  himself,  laying 
down  on  the  window-seat  beside  him  the  microscope 
with  which  he  had  been  engaged.  "  No,"  he  said, 
with  a  good-humored  smile  ;  "  but  I  know  Harry's 
choice  in  flowers.  He  begins  to  have  a  nice  tact  as 
to  what 's  what,  when  it  is  a  question  of  helping  me ; 
but,  for  himself,  he  still  likes  flowers  for  their  looks, 
or  sometimes,  I  think,  for  their  names.  His  favor- 
ites are  the  May-flower  and  the  Forget-me-not. 
They  represent  for  him  the  New  World  and  the 
Old,  —  that  of  hope,  and  that  of  memory.  But  he 
is  a  friend  of  all  wild-flowers,  especially  of  spring 
wild-flowers,  —  and  more  especially  of  those  of  New 
England.  He  loves  the  blood-root,  though  he  ought 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  47 

not,  for  it  is  a  dissembler ;  it  wears  outwardly  the 
garb  of  peace  and  innocence,  but,  out  of  sight, 
wraps  itself  in  the  red  robes  of  tyranny  and  war." 

"  No,"  Harry  answered ;  "  red  is  the  color  of 
tyrants  only  because  they  have  usurped  that  with 
the  rest.  Red,  in  the  old  tradition,  is  symbolic  of 
Divine  Love,  the  source  of  righteous  power.  White 
is, the  symbol  of  Divine  Wisdom,  and  is  that  of 
peace,  because  where  this  wisdom  is  there  must  be 
harmony." 

This  talk  of  New-England  wild-flowers,  the  men- 
tion of  names  once  so  familiar,  was  very  pleasant  to 
me.  I  must  have  the  blood -root,  if  it  will  grow 

'  O 

here.  I  could  never  see  it  again  without  seeing  in 
it  a  great  deal  more  than  itself.  For  me,  the  pure 
white  of  the  flower  will  symbolize  the  wisdom  of 
God,  always  manifest ;  the  red  of  the  root,  His 
love,  sometimes  latent,  yet  still  there. 

The  Doctor,  having  made  his  protest,  put  the 
microscope  into  its  case,  and  came  to  my  mother's 
table  to  examine.  When  he  spied  the  little  flowers 
nestled  in  the  green,  he  exclaimed,  — 

"  Where  did  you  find  these,  Harry  ?  You  must 
have  gone- far  for  them." 

"  No ;  I  found  them  where  the  old  forest  used  to 
be,  among  the  stumps." 

"  Waiting  for  a  new  generation  of  protectors  to 
grow  up  about  them,"  said  the  Doctor,  looking  at 


48  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

them  kindly ;  "  this  generous  climate  leaves  noth- 
ing long  despoiled.  If  Nature  is  let  alone,  she  will 
soon  have  a  forest  there  again.  But,  Harry,  you 
must  take  me  to  that  spot.  We  '11  see  what  else 
there  is  to  find." 

"  Are  these  flowers  scarce  ?  "  Harry  asked. 

"  They  are  getting  to  be." 

"  I  should  have  shown  them  to  you,  but  they  are 
so  pretty  I  thought  they  must  be  common." 

"  Well,  to  do  you  justice,  you  don't  often  make 
a  mistake  now.  —  When  we  first  set  out,"  continued 
the  Doctor,  turning  to  me,  "  he  was  always  asking 
me  to  see  this  beautiful  flower  or  that  superb  tree  ; 
but  now  he  never  calls  my  attention  to  anything 
that  is  not  worth  looking  at." 

"  I  called  you  to  see  one  superb  tree  that  you 
found  worth  looking  at,"  said  Harry,  —  "  Bromp- 
ton's  oak  at  Omocqua.  Colvil,  when  you  see  that 
tree  !  " 

Love  of  trees  is  one  of  the  things  that  Harry 
and  I  are  alike  in. 

"  Yes,  that  is  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  the 
live-oak  I  have  met  with,"  affirmed  the  Doctor. 

"  We  will  hold  our  meeting  under  it  on  the  nine- 
teenth," said  Harry.  "  Colvil,  come  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  eighteenth.  Be  there  before  sunset." 

"  Harry  will  bespeak  fine  weather,"  said  the 
Doctor. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  49 

"  You  know  how  Omocqua  stands  ?  "  asked 
Harry.  "  It  is  in  a  plain,  but  a  high  plain." 

"  I  have  heard  that  it  is  a  beautiful  place." 

"  It  is  beautiful  from  a  distance,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor ;  "  and  when  you  are  in  it,  the  distant  views 
are  beautiful.  The  hotel  we  were  at,  —  the  Jeffer- 
son Hotel,  Harry  ?  " 

"  The  Jackson,  I  believe,  Doctor." 

"  No,  the  Jefferson,"  decided  the  Doctor,  after  a 
moment's  thought.  "  We  heard  the  two  hotels  dis- 
cussed at  Cyclops,  and  decided  for  the  oldest." 

"  They  are  opposite  each  other  on  Union  Square," 
said  Harry,  waiving  the  question. 

"  The  hotel  we  were  at,"  the  Doctor  began  again, 
"  is  on  the  northern  side  of  the  town.  From  the 
field  behind  it,  where  Harry's  tree  stands,  the  pros- 
pect is  certainly  very  grand.  Hills,  mountains,  to 
the  north  and  east,  —  and  west,  a  fine  free  coun- 
try, intersected  by  a  river,  and  happily  varied  with 
low,  round,  wooded  hills,  and  soft  meadows,  and  cul- 
tivated fiejds.  Harry  drew  me  there  almost  against 
my  will,  but  it  needed  no  force  to  keep  me  there. 
I  had  my  flowers  to  see  to.  Harry  brought  out  my 
press  and  my  portfolios,  and  established  me  in  a 
shed  that  runs  out  from  the  barn,  at  right  angles 
with  it,  fronting  west.  He  found  a  bench  there 
that  served  me  for  a  table,  and  brought  me  a 
wooden  block  for  a  seat.  So  there  I  could  sit  and 
4 


50  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

work,  —  my  plants  and  papers  sheltered  from  the 
wind,  —  and  look  up  at  the  view  when  I  chose. 
Harry  is  right.  Meet  us  there  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  eighteenth.  I  wish  it  as  much  as  he  does  ; 
and  the  sunset  will  be  worth  seeing,  if  there  is 
one." 

"  Come  on  the  eighteenth,"  said  Harry,  —  "  and 
if  you  arrive  before  us,  wait  for  us  under  that  tree ; 
if  after,  and  you  do  not  find  me  at  the  door,  look 
for  me  there.  You  go  through  the  house  by  the 
main  entry,  across  the  court,  through  the  great 
barn  ;  the  field  is  in  front  of  you,  and  the  tree." 

"  Or,  if  you  like  better,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  you 
can  enter  by  a  gate  on  a  side-street,  from  which  a 
wagon-road  leads  straight  to  my  work-shed.  The 
street  runs  west  of  the  hotel.  In  any  case,  don't 
fail  us  on  the  nineteenth.  We  '11  hold  your  cele- 
bration under  your  tree,  Harry,  —  that  is,  if  Colvil 
agrees  to  it." 

There  was  no  doubt  about  that. 

After  breakfast,  I  went  up  into  the  stiffly  to  pre- 
pare for  the  morning's  reading.  I  had  intended  to 
.choose  a  sermon  suited  to  Palm  -  Sunday ;  but  I 
happened  to  take  down  first  a  volume  of  South, 
and,  opening  on  the  text,  "  I  have  called  you 
friends,"  could  not  lay  it  down  again.  What 
lesson  fitter  to  read  on  that  beautiful  day,  and  in 
that  dear  company,  than  this,  which  aids  us  to  com- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  51 

prehend  the  inexhaustible  resources  of  the  Divine 
Affection,  —  its  forbearance,  its  constancy,  its  eager 
forgiveness,  beforehand  even  with  our  prayer  for 
it,  —  by  drawing  for  us  the  portrait  of  a  true,  manly 
friendship  ? 

I  have  never  been  able  to  accept  the  doctrine 
that  the  Great  Source  of  JLove  is  jealous  of  His 
own  bounty,  and  reproaches  us  for  bestowing  again 
what  He  has  freely  bestowed.  Yet,  though  unas- 
senting,  I  feel  pain  when  I  read  in  the  works  of 
pious  men  that  a  devoted  regard  yielded  to  a  mor- 
tal is  an  infringement  of  the  Highest  Right,  and  I 
am  grateful  to  the  teachers  who  permit  us  to  learn 
to  love  the  Father  whom  we  have  not  seen  by 
loving  the  brother  whom  we  have  seen.  In  those 

o 

seasons  which  happen  to  us  all,  when  a  shadow 
seems  to  pass  between  the  spirit  and  its  sun,  I  have 
brought  myself  back  to  a  full  and  delighted  sense 
of  the  Supreme  Benignity  by  supposing  the  gen- 
erosity and  tenderness  of  a  noble  human  heart  infi- 
nitely augmented  ;  and  I  have  invigorated  my  trust 
in  the  promises  of  God,  the  spoken  and  the  implied, 
by  calling  to  mind  what  I  have  known  of  the  loyalty 
of  man. 

Human  ties  wind  themselves  very  quickly  and 
very  closely  round  my  heart.  I  cannot  be  brought 
even  casually  into  contact  with  others  so  nearly  that 
I  am  made  aware  of  their  interests  and  aims,  with- 


52  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

out  in  some  sort  receiving  their  lives  into  my  own,  — 
sharing,  perhaps,  in  disappointments,  that,  in  my  own 
person,  I  should  not  have  encountered,  and  rejoicing 
in  successes  which  would  have  been  none  to  me. 
But  friendship  is  still  something  very  different  from 
this,  —  different  even  from  a  kind  and  pleasant  inti- 
macy. Nor  can  we  create  it  at  will.  I  feel  deeply 
the  truth  of  South's  assurance,  that  "  it  is  not  a 
human  production."  "  A  friend,"  he  says,  "  is  the 
gift  of  God  :  He  only  who  made  hearts  can  unite 
them.  For  it  is  He  who  creates  those  sympathies 
and  suitablenesses  of  nature  that  are  the  foundation 
of  all  true  friendship,  and  then  by  His  providence 
brings  persons  so  affected  together." 

Last  Sunday  was  one  of  those  days  that  are  re- 
membered for  their  own  perfection,  apart  from  the 
associations  that  may  have  gathered  about  them  ; 
and  it  seems  to  be  one  of  the  properties  of  these 
transcendent  seasons  to  come  attended  by  all  har- 
monious circumstances.  Nothing  was  wanting  to 
last  Sunday.  It  stands  cloudless  and  faultless  in 
my  memory,  j 

Harry  proposed  that  we  should  hold  our  services 
in  the  open  air.  My  mother  approved.  We  took 
up  her  couch  and  carried  it  out  to  your  favorite 
dreaming-ground,  setting  it  down  near  the  old  tree 
that  goes,  for  your  sake,  by  the  name  of  Keith's 
Pine.  The  place  is  not  rough  as  when  you  were 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  53 

here.  I  have  had  the  stumps  cleared  away,  and 
your  pine  no  longer  looks  so  lonely,  now  that  it 
seems  to  have  been  always  alone. 

We  brought  out  a  bench  and  all  the  chairs  in  the 
house.  We  placed  the  bench  opposite  my  mother's 
couch,  about  thirty  feet  off.  We  set  the  great  arm- 
chair for  the  Doctor,  near  the  head  of  the  couch, 
which  we  considered  the  place  of  honor.  My 
straight  -  backed  oak  chair  was  put  near  the  foot, 
with  my  mother's  little  table  before  it  for  the  books. 
The  other  chairs  were  arranged  in  a  semicircle  on 
each  side,  with  liberal  spaces.  Tabitha  assisted  at 
these  dispositions,  and  chose  a  place  for  her  own  fa- 
vorite willow  chair  close  to  the  trunk  of  the  pine- 
tree,  between  it  and  the  couch,  where,  as  she  said, 
she  had  a  full  view  of  the  congregation.  I  under- 
stood very  well  that  the  poor  soul  had  another  mo- 
tive, and  was  guarding  her  dignity  by  selecting  a 
distinguished  and  at  the  same  time  a  secluded  sta- 
tion. When  she  saw  that  all  was  in  order,  she  went 
back  to  the  house  to  stay  until  the  last  moment,  in 
order  to  direct  late  comers. 

Harry,  at  first,  sat  down  on  the  grass  near  me ; 
but  when  Karl  and  Fritz  came,  they  looked  toward 
him,  evidently  divided  between  their  desire  to  be 
near  him  and  their  fear  of  presuming.  Discretion 
prevailed,  and  they  took  their  seats  on  the  ground 
at  a  little  distance  from  the  bench.  Harry  per- 


54  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

ceived  their  hesitation,  and  saw  Hans  consulting  me 
with  his  eyes.  He  was  up  in  a  moment,  brought  a 
chair  and  put  it  beside  mine  for  the  old  man,  who  is 
getting  a  little  deaf,  and  then  exchanging  a  smiling 
recognition  with  the  boys,  took  his  own  place  near 
them. 

Barton,  the  landlord  of  the  Rapid  Run,  at  Quick- 
ster,  came  that  morning.  You  cannot  have  forgot- 
ten Quickster,  the  pretty  village  with  a  water-fall, 
which  charmed  you  so  much,  —  about  five  miles 
from  Tenpinville,  to  the  north.  And  I  hope  you 
remember  Barton,  the  landlord  of  the  inn  that  takes 
its  name  and  its  sign  from  the  swift  little  river  that 
courses  by  his  door.  He  never  sees  me  without 
inquiring  after  you.  He  shows  the  delights  of  his 
neighborhood  always  with  the  same  zeal.  He  guided 
the  Doctor  and  Harry  about  it  for  an  hour  or  two 
the  day  they  passed  through  Quickster,  coming  from 
Omocqua.  It  was  to  him  the  Doctor  had  recourse, 
when  he  went  back  to  hire  a  wagon  for  poor  Orphy. 
I  thought  at  first  that  Barton  had  forgotten  the  cus- 
tom of  our  Sunday  morning,  and  had  only  meant  to 
pay  me  a  visit  But  it  was  not  so.  He  had  his  son 
with  him,  —  Isaac  Davis  Barton,  —  who  is  now  ten 
years  old,  and  in  whom,  he  says,  he  wants  to  keep 
a  little  of  the  New  -  Englander,  if  he  can,  and  so 
shall  bring  him  over  to  our  reading  every  fair  Sun- 
day. I  did  not  know  whether  I  ought  to  feel 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  55 

pleased  or  not.  There  is  no  church  at  Quickster 
yet ;  but  there  is  one  at  Tenpinville,  —  two,  I 
think.  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  that  I  have  done  well 
to  invite  our  few  neighbors,  who  have  no  chance  of 
hearing  a  good  word  in  any  other  way,  to  listen  to 
a  chapter  in  the  Bible  and  a  sermon  here  on  Sun- 
day. I  have  had  evidence  that  some  of  them  have 
been  made  happier,  and  I  almost  dare  to  think  bet- 
ter, by  coming.  But  it  is  another  thing  when  there 
is  an  opportunity  of  attending  regular  religious  ser- 
vices. I  did  not  think  it  well  to  discourage  Barton 
by  telling  him  my  scruples  on  this  first  occasion. 
It  would  have  been  rather  ungracious  after  his  ten 
miles'  ride.  I  like  the  little  boy  very  much,  and 
hope  we  shall  be  good  friends.  I  shall  feel  a  better 
right  to  advise  by  and  by.  Barton  had  a  chair  near 
Dr.,  Borrow's ;  his  son  sat  in  front  of  him  on  the 
grass. 

Next  to  Barton  came  an  old  man  and  his  wife, 
who  have  established  themselves  in  one  of  the 
empty  houses  on  the  Shaler  plantation,  —  whether 
by  permission  or  as  squatters  I  do  not  know,  and  no- 
body about  here  does.  But  as  the  man  has  a  smat- 
tering of  two  or  three  trades  through  which  he 
makes  himself  acceptable,  and  the  woman  some 
secrets  in  cookery  and  other  household  arts  which 
she  imparts  very  readily,  no  umbrage  is  taken  at 
them.  Their  name  is  Franket.  They  have  simple, 


56  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

honest  faces,  and   bring  nothing   discordant  with 
them. 

The  next  place  in  this  semicircle  was  filled  by  a 
man  who  has  not  a  very  good  name  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. Meeting  him  one  day,  I  asked  him  to 
join  us  on  Sundays,  only  because  I  ask  all  who  live 
near  enough  to  come  easily.  I  did  it  with  a  little 
trouble,  expecting  to  see  a  sneer  on  his  face  ;  but 
he  thanked  me  quite  civilly,  and,  though  several 
weeks  passed  without  his  taking  any  further  no- 
tice of  my  invitation,  it  seems  he  had  not  forgot- 
ten it.  He  is  not  an  ill-looking  man,  when  you  see 
him  fairly.  His  expression  is  melancholy  rather 
than  morose,  as  I  used  to  think  it.  After  this,  I 
shall  never  take  refusal  for  granted,  when  I  have 
anything  to  offer  which  I  believe  worth  accepting. 
This  man's  name  is  Winford.  I  assigned  to  him,  as 
a  stranger,  one  of  two  remaining  chairs ;  but  he  de- 
clined it,  taking  his  seat  on  the  ground.  The  chairs 
were  immediately  after  occupied  by  the  wife  and 
daughter  of  Rufe  Hantham,  a  man  tolerated  for 
abilities  convenient  rather  than  useful.  He  is  one 
of  the  class  of  parasites  that  spring  up  about  every 
large  plantation.  He  is  a  hanger-on  of  the  West- 
lake  estate,  which  lies  just  beyond  Shaler's,  between 
that  and  Tenpinville.  The  wrife  is  a  poor  little 
woman,  whose  face  wears  an  habitual  expression 
of  entreaty.  It  is  the  daughter  who  brings  her,  I 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  57 

think.  This  young  girl,  of  fifteen  or  less,  has  a 
look  of  thought  and  determination,  as  if  she  held  in 
her  mind  some  clearly  formed  plan  which  she  will 
carry  out  to  the  end,  towards  which  her  coming 
here  is  possibly  one  of  the  first  steps.  She  keeps 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  but  evidently  is  listen- 
ing intently,  —  committing,  as  it  seems,  everything 
she  hears  to  a  memory  that  never  lets  go  what  it 
has  once  taken  hold  of.  They  have  been  twice  be- 
fore. When  the  reading  is  over,  the  mother  looks 
as  if  she  would  like  to  have  a  little  chat  with  some- 
body; but  the  daughter  holds  her  in  check  with 
hand  and  eye,  —  not  unkindly,  but  effectually. 
They  wait  until  some  one  sets  the  example  of  going, 
and  then  follow  quickly  and  silently.  We  have 
made  no  attempt  to  invade  a  reserve  which  seems 
deliberate. 

Harvey's  plantation  is  on  the  other  side  of  Ten- 
pinville,  more  than  eighteen  miles  from  us ;  but  it 
had  a  representative  here,  in  young  Lenox,  one  of 
the  sons  of  the  overseer.  He  came  for  the  first 
time.  He  sat  in  the  opposite  semicircle,  next  to 
Harry,  with  whom  he  was  already  acquainted.  The 
chairs  on  that  side  were  occupied  by  the  Segrufs 
and  Blantys,  respectable  neighbors,  whom  you  may 
remember. 

Another  new-comer  was  a  little  boy  whom  we 
met  in  our  morning  walk,  and  who  joined  himself  to 


58  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

us  at  once  with  a  confidence  which  was  very  pleas- 
ant. Harry  took  a  great  fancy  to  him.  I  asked 
him  to  come  to  us  at  ten,  hardly  hoping  he  would 
accept;  but  he  did,  eagerly.  He  does  not  belong 
to  our  part  of  the  world.  He  is  the  son  of  a  car- 
penter who  has  work  here  for  a  few  months.  I  was 
glad  to  see  him  come  in,  and  another  little  fellow 
whose  father  has  brought  him  once  or  twice,  but 
who  has  not  been  alone  before.  The  father  is  not 
often  well  enough  to  come. 

There  are  one  or  two  persons  whom  I  am  always 
glad  not  to  see  ;  and  that  morning  my  wishes  were 
answered  in  those  who  came  and  in  those  who 
stayed  away.  Of  these  last  is  Phil  Phinn,  who 
thinks  to  make  up  for  the  time  of  mine  he  uses  in 
the  adjustment  of  his  neighborly  differences  by  de- 
voting an  hour  of  his  own,  once  in  two  or  three 
weeks,  to  the  penance  of  listening  to  me.  I  could 
well  spare  his  vacant  solemnity  that  day.  His 
absence  was  of  good  augury,  too,  for  he  is  strict 
in  attendance  when  an  occasion  for  mediation  is 
imminent. 

At  ten  o'clock  precisely  we  heard  the  great  bell 
rung  by  Tabitha,  who  until  then  kept  watch  at  the 
house.  While  it  was  ringing,  a  family  came  in  of 
which  I  must  speak  more  particularly,  because  I 
feel  already  that  I  shall  speak  of  it  often.  This 
family  has  only  recently  arrived  in  the  neighbor- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  59 

hood.  The  father,  I  think,  is  Southern  born ;  the 
mother  must  be  from  the  North.  They  brought  all 
their  children,  down  to  the  baby,  three  years  old, 
that  listened  with  all  its  eyes,  as  the  rest  with  all 
their  hearts.  They  had  been  here  only  twice 
before  ;  but  the  perfect  unity  of  this  little  family, 
which  seemed  always  influenced  by  one  feeling, 
moved  by  one  will,  the  anxious  watchfulness  of 
the  parents,  the  close  dependence  of  the  children, 
had  already  greatly  interested  me.  This  man  and 
woman  have  certainly  known  more  prosperous,  if 
not  better  days.  The  lines  of  their  faces,  their 
whole  bearing,  tell  of  successive  reverses,  worthily, 
though  not  resolutely  borne,  —  of  a  down-hill  path 
long  trodden  by  patient,  but  unresisting  feet.  There 
are  no  signs  of  struggle  against  adverse  fortune. 
But,  in  such  a  struggle,  how  often  do  the  charm 
and  joy  of  life  perish,  torn  and  trampled  by  their 
very  rescuers  !  These  people  have  maintained 
their  equanimity,  if  not  their  cheerfulness.  They 
have  no  reproaches  for  themselves  or  each  other. 
The  bench  was  for  this  family.  The  father,  the 
mother  with  the  baby  in  her  lap,  the  daughter,  and 
the  second  son  filled  it ;  the  eldest  sat  at  his  moth- 
er's feet,  and,  when  he  was  particularly  moved  or 
pleased  by  anything  that  was  read,  looked  up  to  her 
to  see  if  he  was  right.  A  great  gravity  held  the 
whole  group,  —  deepest  on  the  elder  faces,  and  grad- 


60  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

ually  shading  off  into  the  undue  tranquillity  of  the 
infantile  look. 

When  Tabitha  came,  she  brought  the  little  white 
vase  with  Harry's  flowers,  and  put  it  on  the  table, 
where,  indeed,  it  ought  to  have  been. 

I  seldom  read  the  whole  of  a  sermon.  I  like  to 
keep  more  time  for  the  Bible.  And  then  I  omit 
those  passages  which  I  foresee  might  provoke  ques- 
tions which  I  should  not  dare  to  assume  the  respon- 
sibility of  answering.  I  do  not  presume  to  take 
upon  myself  the  office  of  religious  teacher.  I  only 
strive,  in  the  absence  of  one,  to  keep  alive  in  my- 
self and  those  near  me  a  constant  sense  of  God's 
presence  and  care,  and  of  the  bond  which,  uniting 
us  to  Him,  unites  us  to  each  other.  This  I  do  by 
reading  the  words  of  those  who  have  had  this  sense 
most  strongly  and  have  expressed  it  most  vividly. 

Of  the  sermon  I  had  chosen  I  read  the  first  para- 
graph, and  then,  turning  over  nine  pages,  began 
with  the  Privileges  of  Friendship.  I  do  not  know 
whether  this  discourse  of  South's  is  to  others  what 
it  is  to  me.  Perhaps  there  is  something  in  it  par- 
ticularly adapted  to  my  needs,  —  or  perhaps  it  is  be- 
cause it  came  to  me  first  at  a  time  when  I  was  very 
eager  for  the  assurances  it  gives ;  but  I  never 
read  it  without  feeling  a  new  inflow  of  peace  and 
security.  At  least  some  of  those  who  heard  it  with 
me  that  day  felt  with  me.  Harry  I  was  sure  of 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  61 

beforehand.  When  we  broke  up,  and  I  went  for- 
ward to  speak  to  the  strangers  on  the  bench,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  their  anxieties  were  soothed  by 
something  softer  than  patience.  An  indefinable 
change  had  passed  over  the  whole  family.  They 
all  seemed  lightened  of  a  part  of  the  habitual  bur- 
den. I  took  them  up  to  my  mother.  She  asked 
them  to  be  sure  and  come  on  Easter  Sunday ;  they 
accepted  in  earnest ;  but  with  their  poor  little  wagon 
and  poor  old  mule  they  will  hardly  encounter  the 
rain  and  the  mud  to-day. 

I  was  so  intent  on  my  letter,  that  I  forgot  the 
weather,  until,  writing  the  word  ram,  I  looked 
towards  the  window.  It  does  not  rain,  and  has  ap- 
parently held  up  for  some  time.  And  now  I  hear 
a  racket  in  the  road,  and  a  stumping,  that  can  come 
only  from  the  poor  little  wagon  and  the  poor  old 
mule. 

AFTERNOON,  3  O'CLOCK. 

It  is  raining  again ;  but  I  think  our  friends  had 
time  to  reach  their  homes  before  it  began.  We 
have  had  a  happy  day,  notwithstanding  its  dull 
promise.  I  read  an  Easter  sermon,  —  "  Because  it 
was  not  possible  that  he  should  be  holden  of  it."  The 
text  itself  is  more  than  a  thousand  sermons. 

The  name  of  the  family  that  was  arriving  thi» 


62  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

morning  when  I  left  off  writing  is  Linton.  They 
are  from  Western  Virginia.  They  stayed  with  us 
for  an  hour  after  the  reading  was  over.  Our  inter- 
est in  them  is  still  increased.  Winford  came  again. 
I  asked  him  to  stay ;  he  declined ;  but  I  think  he 
was  pleased  at  being  invited.  The  Hanthams  came, 
mother  and  daughter.  They  arrived  at  the  last 
moment,  and  went  at  the  closing  of  the  book.  The 
corner  in  which  the  table  stood  was  curtained  off, 
so  that  there  was  no  visible  sign  of  unusual  hospi- 
tality ;  but  they  had  perhaps  heard  of  the  custom 
of  the  day.  Mrs.  Hantham  would  not  have  been 
inexorable  ;  but  she  was  summoned  away  by  a  gest- 
ure a  little  too  imperative,  perhaps,  from  a  daugh- 
ter to  her  mother.  Davis  Barton  came  on  horse- 
back, without  his  father.  I  set  him  off  again  at 
one  o'clock;  for  the  sky  threatened,  and  his  road 
home  was  a  difficult  one  at  best. 

But  let  me  go  back  to  last  Sunday.  I  was  just  at 
the  breaking-up  of  our  little  assembly  by  the  pine. 

The  Lintons  —  they  had  no  name  then  — •  were 
the  first  to  go.  The  Hanthams  were  the  next. 
Then  the  others  dropped  off,  one  by  one  and  two  by 
two :  some  taking  leave  as  if  they  felt  themselves 
guests  ;  others  withdrawing  silently,  as  considering 
themselves  only  part  of  a  congregation.  Barton 
went  round  shaking  hands  with  one  and  another. 
I  was  surprised  to  see  him  show  this  attention  to 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  63 

Winford.  Barton  likes  to  be  well  with  the  world, 
—  that  is,  with  as  much  of  it  as  he  respects  ;  but  he 
respects  himself,  and  does  not  seek  popularity  at  the 
expense  of  sincerity.  I  am  confirmed  in  my  belief 
that  there  is  good  in  Winford. 

When  all  the  rest  were  gone,  Barton  came  up  to 
have  a  talk  with  the  Doctor,  for  whom  he  evidently 
has  a  great  admiration.  Harry  remained  with  Karl 
and  Fritz,  who  were  holding  him  in  conversation, 
apparently  on  some  important  matter,  —  old  Hans,  a 
critical  listener,  completing  the  group. 

Barton  inquired  after  the  success  of  the  Doctor's 
late  excursions,  and  complimented  him  warmly  on 
his  powers  of  endurance,  which  seemed  almost 
miraculous  in  a  city  man.  This  Doctor  Borrow 
freely  admitted,  declaring  that  he  had  hardly  ever 
undertaken  an  expedition  with  a  party  of  people 
which  had  not  turned  out  a  disappointment,  —  that 
he  seldom,  indeed,  found  even  a  single  companion 
who  could  walk  with  him,  or  who  could  rough  it  as 
he  could. 

"  You  've  got  one  now,  though,"  said  Barton. 

"  Oh,  for  that,"  the  Doctor  answered,  laughing, 
"  Harry  is  a  degree  beyond  me.  I  can  bear  as 
much  as  any  man,  but  I  know  that  I  'm  bearing, 
and  like  to  give  myself  credit  for  it.  Harry  never 
feels  either  heat  or  cold  or  damp  or  dust.  Nothing 
disagreeable  is  able  to  get  at  him.  There  is  no  such 


64  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

thing  as  hard  fare  for  him ;  and  if  he  knows  what 
fatigue  is,  he  has  never  confessed  to  it." 

"  And  yet  I  suppose  he  's  something  of  a  scholar, 
too  ?  "  asked  Barton ;  and  he  looked  thoughtfully 
down  at  his  son,  who  always  kept  close  to  him,  and 
who  had  been  drinking  all  this  in  eagerly. 

As  the  Doctor  hesitated  to  reply,  Barton  added,  — 
"  I  asked  him,  that  day  you  were  at  Quickster,  if  he 
had  read  a  book  that  I  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  talk 
about  in  the  newspapers,  and  he  said,  No,  that  he 
had  hardly  read  anything  yet." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  at  his  age  !  -Still,  you 
need  not  precisely  take  him  at  his  own  estimate. 
His  modesty  misleads,  as  much  as  some  people's 
conceit  does  the  other  way.  He  is  not  always  up 
to  the  fashion  of  the  moment  in  literature  ;  does 
not  try  to  read  everything  that  is  talked  about ;  but 
he  has  read  the  best  of  the  best." 

"  Is  that  the  best  way,  do  you  think  ?  "  asked 
Barton,  anxiously. 

"  What  do  you  think  yourself  ?  "  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"  I  should  think  it  must  be  a  good  one." 

"  It  depends  altogether  on  what  you  want  to 
have,"  said  the  Doctor,  following  the  track  of  Bar- 
ton's thought,  and  fixing  a  searching  look  on  Davis, 
as  if  to  ascertain  what  material  was  there.  "  The 
queen-bee  is  fed  on  special  and  choice  food  from  the 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  65 

first ;  if  you  want  a  king-man,  you  must  follow  the 
same  course." 

"  You  've  seen  some  fine  countries  abroad,  Sir?  " 
said  Barton,  presently.  "  Any  finer  than  ours  ?  " 

"  Finer  than  yours  ?  No.  You  've  a  fine  coun- 
try here,  Mr.  Barton,  and  a  fresh  country :  Nature 
stands  on  her  own  merits,  as  yet.  No  '  associations ' 
here  ;  no  '  scenes  of  historical  interest '  for  sight- 
seers to  gape  at  and  enthusiasts  to  dream  over. 
You  have  your  Indian  mpunds,  to  be  sure  ;  but 
these  are  simple  objects  of  curiosity,  and  don't  ex- 
act any  tribute  of  feeling  :  you  've  no  'glorious  tra- 
ditions,' and  I  assure  you,  it  is  reposing  to  be  out 
of  their  reach." 

"  We  've  only  what  we  bring  with  us,"  answered 
Barton,  a  little  touched;  "we  don't  leave  our  coun- 
try when  we  come  here." 

"  Colvil  looks  now  as  if  he  had  something  in  re- 
serve. But  I  'm  not  alarmed.  If  there  had  been 
anything  about  here  that  had  a  tinge  of  poetry, 
I  should  have  heard  of  it  long  ago  from  Harry. 
Most  people  think  this  sort  of  folly  is  in  good  taste 
only  in  Europe.  But  Harry  brought  it  home  with 
him  in  full  force.  Before  he  'd  been  on  land  a 
week,  he  'd  seen  Concord  and  Lexington." 

"  Had  he,  though  ?  "  cried  Barton.     "  I  am  an 
Acton  boy,  you  know,"  he   added,  in  a  subdued 
tone,  a  little  abashed  by  his  own  vivacity. 
5 


66  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Dudley  has  waked  up  the  old- 
fashioned  patriot  in  you  already." — Harry  had  now 
come  up,  and  made  one  of  the  Doctor's  listeners. — 
"  I  saw  he  was  getting  hold  of  you  that  morning  at 
Quickster,  when  you  were  talking  up  your  State  to 
us.  You  were  beginning  to  feel  that  you  had  some- 
thing to  do  about  it.  It  is  n't  the  country  that  be- 
longs to  her  sons,  according  to  him,  but  her  sons 
that  belong  to  the  country.  Take  care !  give  him 
time,  and  he  '11  make  a  convert  of  you." 

"  I  will  give  him  time,"  answered  Barton,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Don't  be  too  confident  of  yourself.  I  have  to 
stand  on  my  guard,  myself,  sometimes.  And  don't 
be  misled  into  supposing  that  his  notions  are  the 
fashion  in  the  part  of  the  world  we  come  from,  or 
in  any  other  civilized  part  of  it.  Harry,  you  were 
born  some  hundreds  of  years  too  late  or  too  early. 
Fervor  in  anything,  but  above  all  in  public  service, 
is  out  of  place  in  the  world  of  our  day. 

"  '  Love  your  country ;  wish  it  well ; 

Not  with  too  intense  a  care: 
Let  it  suffice,  that,  when  it  fell, 
Thou  its  ruin  didst  not  share.' 

That 's  modern  patriotism,  the  patriotism  of  Eu- 
rope. Ours  is  of  the  same  strain,  only  modified  by 
our  circumstances.  Our  Mother -land  is  a  good 
housekeeper.  She  spreads  a  plentiful  table,  and  her 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  67 

sons  appreciate  it.  She  wants  no  sentimental  affec- 
tion, and  receives  none.  She  is  not  obliged  to  ask 
for  painful  sacrifice  ;  and  lucky  for  her  that  she  is 
not !  " 

Harry's  cheek  flushed,  and  his  eye  kindled :  — 

"  Let  her  only  have  need  of  them,  and  it  will  be 
seen  whether  her  sons  love  her  !  " 

Davis  Barton  was  in  more  danger  of  conversion 
than  his  father;  his  eyes  were  fixed  ardently  on 
Harry;  his  face  glowed  in  sympathy. 

"  The  nearest  thing  we  have  to  a  place  with 
'  associations,'  "  I  began  quickly,  preventing  what- 
ever sarcastic  answer  may  have  been  ready  on  the 
Doctor's  lips,  "  is  the  Shaler  plantation." 

"  Yes,"  said  Barton,  "  the  Colonel  was  an  old 
Revolutioner." 

"  The  father  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  Yes." 

"  To  be  sure.  The  son's  title  is  an  inherited  one, 
like  my  friend  Harvey's,  who,  now  he  is  beginning 
to  get  a  little  gray,  is  'the  Judge,'  I  find,  with 
everybody." 

"  And  he  looks  it  very  well,"  said  Barton.  "  I 
don't  know  whether  it  will  go  down  farther." 

"  And  the  present  Colonel  is  a  new  Revolutioner, 
probably,"  said  the  Doctor,  inquiringly. 

*'  I  suppose  some  people  might  think  he  only  fol- 
lowed after  his  father,"  Barton  answered. 


68  FIFTEEN   DATS. 

We  were  getting  on  delicate  ground.  Barton  is 
no  trimmer,  but  he  is  landlord  of  the  Rapid  Run. 
He  made  a  diversion  by  inquiring  after  Orphy,  and 
the  Doctor  gave  him  the  account  of  their  journey 
as  he  had  given  it  to  me, — yet  not  forgetting  that  he 
had  given  it  to  me.  The  same  in  substantial  facts, 
his  story  was  amplified  and  varied  in  details  and  in 
ornament,  so  that  I  heard  it  with  as  much  interest 
as  if  it  had  been  the  first  time. 

"  Is  musical  genius  of  the  force  of  Orphy's  com- 
mon among  the  negroes  of  your  plantations  ?  "  The 
Doctor  addressed  this  question  to  me. 

"Not  common,  certainly,  —  nor  yet  entirely  sin- 
gular. Almost  all  our  large  plantations  have  their 
minstrel,  of  greater  or  less  talent.  Your  friend,  Mr. 
Frank  Harvey,  has  a  boy  on  his  place,  who,  if  not 
equal  to  Orphy,  has  yet  a  remarkable  gift.  Did  not 
Mr.  Harvey  speak  to  you  of  him  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say.  He  had  several  prodigies  of  differ- 
ent kinds  to  exhibit  to  us.  But  we  were  there  so 
short  a  time  !  He  introduced  us  to  a  blacksmith  of 
genius  ;  to  a  specimen  of  ugliness  supposed  to  be 
the  most  superior  extant,  —  out  of  Guinea ;  and  to 
a  few  other  notabilities.  But  we  had  hardly  time 
to  see  even  the  place  itself,  which  really  offers  a 
great  deal  to  admire.  I  could  have  given  a  few 
more  days  to  it,  but  I  saw  that  Harry  was  in  a 
hurry  to  be  off." 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  69 

"  I  am  sorry  you  did  not  see  that  boy.  He  would 
have  taken  hold  of  your  imagination,  I  think,  and 
certainly  of  Harry's.  Airy  has  seen  only  the  sunny 
side  of  life.  He  has  all  the  espieglerie  of  the  Afri- 
can child." 

"  Orphy  has  not  much  of  that,"  said  the  Doctor. 

You  ought  to  have  seen  little  Airy,  too,  Keith. 
He  was  already  famous  when  you  were  here.  He 
is  rightly  named ;  a  very  Ariel  for  grace  and  spor- 
tiveness.  With  the  African  light-heartedness,  he 
has  also  something  of  African  pathos.  In  his  silent 
smile  there  is  a  delicate  sadness,  —  not  the  trace 
of  any  pain  he  has  known,  but  like  the  lingering 
of  an  inherited  regret.  His  transitions  are  more 
rapid  than  belong  to  our  race  :  while  you  are  still 
laughing  at  his  drollery,  you  see  that  he  has  sud- 
denly passed  far  away  from  you  ;  his  soft,  shadowy 
eyes  are  looking  out  from  under  their  drooping 
lashes  into  a  land  where  your  sight  cannot  follow 
them. 

"  If  you  were  to  go  there  again,  it  would  be 
worth  while  to  ask  for  him,"  I  said  to  the  Doctor. 
"  Airy  Harvey  is  one  of  the  wonders  of  our  world." 

"  Airy  Harvey  !  "  cried  the  Doctor ;  "  does  Har- 
vey allow  his  servants  to  bear  his  name  ?  Westlake 
strictly  forbids  the  use  of  his  to  his  people.  But 
then  he  supplies  them  with  magnificent  substitutes. 
He  does  n't  think  any  name  but  his  own  too  good 
for  them." 


70  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

"  Does  he  forbid  them  to  take  it  ?  "  asked  Bar- 
ton. "  I  heard  so,  but  thought  it  was  a  joke.  Why, 
there  is  n't  a  living  thing  on  his  place  but  goes  by 
his  name,  down  to  that  handsome  hound  that  fol- 
lows him,  who  's  known  everywhere  about  as  Nero 
Westlake." 

Barton  seemed  to  enjoy  Westlake's  failure,  and 
so,  I  am  afraid,  did  the  Doctor.  He  laughed  heart- 

%• 

"  He  's  rather  unlucky,"  he  said,  "  considering 

it  's  almost  the  only  thing  he  is  particular  about." 

"  I  don't  believe  Mr.  Harvey  could  change  the 
custom  either,  if  he  wished,"  I  said ;  "  but  I  do 
not  think  he  does  wish  it.  A  name  is  a  strong 
bond." 

"  That 's  true,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  Harvey 's  a 
wise  man  ;  it 's  a  means  of  government." 

"  If  I  had  to  live  under  one  of  them,"  said  Barton, 
"  Westlake's  haphazard  fashions  would  suit  me  bet- 
ter than  Harvey's  regular  system :  a  life  in  which 
everything  is  known  beforehand  tells  on  the  nerves. 
But,  strangely  enough,  Mr.  Harvey  never  loses  one 
of  his  people,  and  Westlake's  are  always  slipping 
off." 

"  If  Harvey  carried  on  his  plantation  himself, 
as  Westlake  does,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  he  would 
be  adored  where  now  he  is  only  loved.  His  rule 
would  abound  in  that  element  of  uncertainty  whose 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  71 

charm  you  appreciate  so  justly.  But  he  is  wisely 
content  to  reign  and  not  to  govern." 

"  Mr.  Harvey  has  a  good  overseer,  I  under- 
stand," said  Barton,  —  "  supervisor,  though,  I  be- 
lieve it  is." 

"  Lenox  ;  yes.  He  is  able,  perfectly  temperate, 
cool,  inflexible,  and  just." 

"  You  have  learned  his  character  from  Mr.  Har- 
yey?" 

"  And  from  what  I  have  myself  seen.  The  es- 
tate is  really  well  ordered,  —  all  things  considered ; 
Harvey  tells  me  it  is  rare  that  a  complaint  is  heard 
from  his  negroes." 

"  Lenox  takes  care  of  that,"  said  Harry. 

"  And  he  ought.  I  walked  round  among  the 
cabins  with  Harvey.  Not  a  creature  but  had  his 
petition  ;  not  one  but  would  have  had  his  grievance, 
if  he  had  dared." 

"  Do  you  suppose  they  have  no  real  grievances, 
then  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  no  such  thing.  I  never  saw  the  man 
yet  —  the  grown  man  —  without  one  ;  and  as  I 
did  not  expect  to  meet  with  him  here,  I  did  n't  look 
for  him.  Harvey  allows  no  unnecessary  severity ; 
his  plantation  is  governed  by  fixed  laws,  to  which 
the  overseer  is  amenable  as  well  as  the  slaves. 
Every  deviation  from  them  has  to  be  accounted  for. 
He  sees  that  his  people  have  justice  done  them,  — 


72  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

that  is  to  say,  as  far  as  justice  ever  is  done  on  this 
earth.  He  has  wrought  no  miracles,  and  probably 
did  not  expect  to  work  any.  He  has  run  into  no 
extravagances  of  benevolence ;  and  I  respect  him 
for  it  all  the  more  that  I  know  he  is  by  nature 
an  impetuous  man.  I  cannot  but  think  our  friend 
Shaler  would  have  done  better  to  follow  his  exam- 
ple than  to  abandon  his  negroes  as  he  has." 

"  He  gave  them  something  to  begin  their  new  life 
with,"  said  Harry. 

"  So  much  thrown  away.  Just  a  sop  to  his  con- 
science, like  the  rest ;  a  mode  of  excusing  himself 
to  himself  for  shifting  off  his  own  responsibilities 
upon  other  people.  Two  thirds  of  his  rabble  are 
paupers  by  this  time." 

Harry  looked  to  me  for  the  answer. 

"  They  have  been  free  four  years.  Two  of  them 
have  fallen  back  on  his  hands,  —  two  out  of  one 
hundred  and  seventy-three.  He  has  not  abandoned 
them.  They  still  apply  to  him  when  they  need 
advice  or  aid." 

"  I  was  not  so  much  arguing  about  this  particular 
case,  which  I  don't  pretend  to  have  much  knowl- 
edge of,  as  reasoning  upon  general  grounds.  I 
still  think  he  would  have  done  better  to  keep  his 
slaves  and  try  to  make  something  of  them  here." 

"  The  law  would  not  let  him  make  men  of  them 
here,"  Harry  answered. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  73 

"  A  great  deal  may  be  done,  still  keeping  within 
the  law,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  by  a  man  more  in- 
tent on  doing  good  than  on  doing  it  precisely  in  his 
own  way." 

"  Even  in  what  it  allowed,  the  law  did  not  pro- 
tect him.  Where  injustice  is  made  law,  law  loses 
respect,  —  most  of  all  with  those  who  have  pervert- 
ed it  to  their  service.  You  know  Mr.  Westlake's 
maxim,  — '  Those  who  make  the  laws  can  judge 
what  they  are  made  for.'  ' 

"  The  power  of  opinion  in  what  are  called  free 
countries,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "is  indeed  excessive. 
It  has  long  been  a  question  with  me,  whether  a 
single  hand  to  hold  the  sceptre  is  not  preferable  to 
this  Briareus.  But  we  have  chosen.  I  am  not 
disposed  to  deliver  myself  up,  bound  hand  and  foot, 
to  this  fetich  of  public  opinion.  Still,  a  man  owes 
some  respect  to  the  feelings  and  principles  of  the 
community  in  which  he  lives.  I  may  think  the 
best  way  of  disposing  of  old  houses  is  to  burn  them 
down  ;  but  my  neighbors  will  have  something  to 
say,  and  justly." 

Harry  did  not  reply  ;  nor  did  I  at  that  time. 

Tabitha  appeared  and  bore  off  three  chairs,  —  one 
on  her  head  and  one  in  each  hand.  We  under- 
stood the  signal.  Harry  and  I  took  up  my 
mother's  couch ;  Barton  and  his  son  loaded  them- 
selves with  two  chairs  each ;  the  Doctor  lifted 


74  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

the  arm-chair  with  both  hands,  and,  holding  it  out 
before  him,  led  the  way,  somewhat  impeded  by  his 
burden ;  and  so  we  moved  in  slow  procession  to  the 
house. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  Barton  and  his  son  were 
gone,  the  Doctor,  Harry,  and  I  took  a  walk  to  the 
site  of  the  old  forest.  We  found  a  few  more  flow- 
ers like  those  Harry  had  brought  to  my  mother  in 
the  morning,  but  nothing  else  that  the  Doctor  cared 
for.  On  our  way  back,  I  told  him  the  story  of  Sha- 
ler's  attempt  and  failure.  I  wonder  I  did  not  tell  it 
to  you  when  you  were  here.  But  we  had  so  much 
to  ask  and  to  say,  and  the  time  was  so  short !  I  will 
tell  it  to  you  now. 

Shaler  did  not  wish  to  burn  down  the  old  house, 
nor  even  to  pull  it  down.  He  wished  to  renew  and 
remodel  it  so  slowly  and  so  cautiously  that  those 
who  were  in  it  should  hardly  be  aware  of  change 
until  they  learned  it  by  increase  of  comfort.  He 
was  not  a  self-centred,  but  a  very  public  -  spirited 
man.  He  had  a  great  ambition  for  his  State.  He 
wished  it  to  be  a  model  of  prosperity,  material  and 
moral.  He  saw  that  its  natural  advantages  entitled 
it  to  take  this  position.  The  most  practical  of  re- 
formers, he  began  with  himself.  He  found  fault 
with  nobody  ;  he  preached  to  nobody  ;  he  meant  to 
let  his  plantation  speak  for  him.  His  plan  was  sim- 
ply to  substitute  inducement  for  coercion,  —  to  give 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  75 

his  men  a  healthy  interest  in  their  labor  by  letting 
them  share  the  profits,  —  in  short,  to  bring  them 
under  the  ordinary  motives  to  exertion.  This  does 
not  appear  to  you  a  very  original  scheme,  nor, 
probably,  a  very  dangerous  one.  He  entered  upon 
it,  however,  with  great  precautions,  having  due  re- 
gard to  law,  and,  as  he  thought,  to  opinion.  He 
did  not  pay  his  people  wages,  nor  even  make  them 
presents  in  money.  He  gave  them  better  food, 
better  clothes,  better  houses,  letting  their  comforts 
and  luxuries  increase  in  exact  proportion  to  their 
industry.  The  result  was  what  he  had  hoped,  —  or 
rather,  it  was  beyond  his  hopes.  The  pecuniary 
advantage  was  greater  and  more  speedy  than  he 
had  expected.  He  did  not  boast  himself.  He 
waited  for  his  abundant  crops,  his  fine  gardens  and 
orchards,  and  his  hard-working  people  to  bring  him 
enviers  and  imitators.  The  report,  in  fact,  soon 
spread,  that  Shaler  was  trying  a  new  system,  and 
that  it  was  succeeding.  Neighbors  came  to  inspect 
and  inquire,  —  first  the  near,  then  the  more  distant. 
Shaler  forgot  his  caution.  He  was  an  enthusiast, 
after  all.  He  saw  proselytes  in  his  guests.  He 
laid  bare  his  schemes  and  hopes.  These  aimed  at 
nothing  less  than  the  conversion  of  the  whole  State, 
through  his  success,  to  more  enlightened  views ; 
thence,  a  revisal  of  the  laws,  a  withdrawal  of  the 
checks  on  benevolent  effort ;  and  finally,  the  merg- 


76  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

ing  of  slavery  in  a  new  system,  which  should  have 
nothing  of  the  past  but  the  tradition  of  grateful 
dependence  on  the  part  of  the  employed  and  of 
responsibility  on  that  of  the  employer,  rendering 
their  relation  more  kindly  and  more  permanent. 

Among  his  visitors  and  hearers  were  generous 
men  to  be  moved  by  his  ideas,  and  wise  men  to  ap~ 
preciate  their  practical  fruit ;  but  the  sensitiveness 
of  delicate  minds,  and  the  caution  of  judicious  ones, 
withholding  from  prompt  speech  and  action,  too  often 
leave  the  sway  in  society  to  men  of  small  heart,  nar- 
row mind,  and  strong,  selfish  instincts.  Such  never 
hesitate.  Their  sight  is  not  far  enough  or  strong 
enough  to  show  them  distant  advantages  or  dangers. 
Their  nearest  interest  is  all  they  inquire  after. 
These  men  combine  easily ;  they  know  each  other, 
and  are  sure  of  each  other.  The  sensitive  shrink 
aside  and  let  them  pass  on  ;  the  prudent  deliberate 
until  the  moment  for  arresting  them  has  gone  by. 
Men  who  are  both  good  and  brave  come  singly, 
and,  for  the  most  part,  stand  and  fall  alone. 

"  Great  Tyranny,  lay  thou  thy  basis  sure, 
For  Goodness  dares  not  check  thee ! " 

Shaler  had  not  miscalculated  so  much  as  the  result 
would  seem  to  show :  the  opinion  of  the  majority 
was  perhaps  with  him  ;  but  the  only  voices  raised 
were  against  him.  The  storm  had  already  gathered 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  77 

thick  about  him  before  he  was  aware  of  its  ap- 
proach. The  first  intimations  were  not  violent. 
He  was  admonished  that  his  course  was  disap- 
proved,—  was  advised  to  let  things  slip  back  quietly 
into  the  old  track,  and  that  so  his  eccentricities 
would  be  forgotten.  This  mildness  failing,  he  was 
told  that  he  was  endangering  the  wrelfare  of  the 
community,  —  and,  lastly,  that  he  would  incur  peril 
himself,  if  he  persisted.  He  was  not  a  man  to  be 
driven  from  his  ground  by  threats,  nor  by  loss  or 
suffering  which  he  was  to  bear  alone.  His  cattle 
died ;  his  horses  fell  lame  ;  his  barns  and  store- 
houses took  fire.  He  ignored  the  cause  of  these 
disasters  and  kept  quietly  on,  still  hoping  to  over- 
come evil  with  good.  His  great  strength  and 
courage,  with  his  known  skill  in  the  use  of  arms, 
deterred  from  personal  violence.  But  there  were 
surer  means.:  his  people  were  subjected  to  annoy- 
ance and  injury,  —  and,  moreover,  were  accused  of 
every  offence  committed  within  a  circuit  of  twenty 
miles.  His  duty  as  their  protector  obliged  him  to 
give  way:  he  took  the  only  course  by  which  he 
could  provide  for  their  welfare. 

"  I  have  no  quarrel  with  Shaler,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor, after  he  had  heard  the  story,  which  I  gave  him 
much  less  at  length  than  I  have  told  it  to  you.  "  I 
have  no  quarrel  with  Shaler.  He  had  a  right  to  do 
what  he  would  with  his  own.  I  only  ask  the  same 


78  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

liberty  for  my  friend  Harvey,  and  for  those  who, 
like  him,  accept  their  lot  as  it  is  given  to  them." 

"  Mr.  Harvey  is  not  happy,"  said  Harry,  seri- 
ously. "  There  are  lines  of  pain  on  his  face.  I  do 
not  think  he  accepts  his  lot." 

"  Well,  submits  to  it,  then, — the  next  best  thing." 

"  Hardly  even  submits.  I  think  he  begins  to 
doubt  himself." 

"  He  is  of  the  age  for  doubting  himself.  It  is  at 
twenty  that  we  are  infallible.  To  be  sure,  some 
happy  men  are  so  all  their  lives.  Shaler,  I  dare 
say,  would  n't  have  a  doubt  of  his  own  wisdom,  if 
the  whole  hundred  and  seventy-three  were  starved 
or  hanged.  If  there  are  marks  of  care  on  Har- 
vey's face,  reasons  might  be  found  for  it  without 
inventing  for  him  an  uneasy  conscience." 

"  I  think  he  envies  Shaler,  and  would  follow 
his  example,  if  he  had  the  resolution.  It  is 
strange  to  see  a  brave  man  under  such  a  thral- 
dom." 

"  If  Frank  Harvey  wants  courage,  it  is  some- 
thing new." 

"  There  are  men  who  have  courage  to  face  a  foe, 
but  not  to  stand  up  against  a  friend." 

"  Certainly,  in  such  a  project,  he  would  have  his 
wife's  family  to  count  with,  to  say  nothing  of  his 
own  children.  I  fancy  he  would  hardly  find  a  co- 
adjutor in  Fred.  You  know  Fred  Harvey,  Harry ; 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  79 

he  was  at  school  with  you  in  Paris.  What  sort  of 
a  fellow  was  he  then  ?  " 

"  I  liked  him." 

"  I  was  not  ill-pleased  with  him,  when  I  saw  him 
in  Paris  four  years  ago.  A  fine-looking  fellow ; 
formed  manners  ;  modest  enough,  too.  I  thought 
he  would  fill  his  place  in  the  world  creditably. 
Did  you  see  much  of  him,  Harry,  after  you  left 
school  ?  " 

"  For  a  year  I  saw  him  constantly.  We  went  to 
the  same  lectures  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  a  reminis- 
cence had  been  waking  in  my  mind. 

"  Did  you  ever  take  a  journey  with  Frederic 
Harvey  ?  "  I  asked  Harry. 

"  Yes,  into  Brittany." 

"  Were  you  at  a  Trappist  monastery  with  him  ?  " 

"  At  La  Meilleraie.     We  passed  a  night  there." 

It  was»clear.  I  had  been  present  once  at  a  con- 
versation between  Frederic  and  his  sister,  in  which 
he  spoke  of  his  companion  on  this  journey  into  Brit- 
tany more  warmly  than  I  had  ever  heard  him  speak 
of  any  other  man,  and  yet  with  a  discrimination 
that  individualized  the  praise,  and  made  it  seem  not 
only  sincere,  but  accurate.  This  conversation  inter- 
ested me  very  much  at  the  time  ;  but,  as  I  had  no 
expectation  of  seeing  the  person  who  was  the  sub- 
ject of  it,  his  name  passed  from  me. 


80  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

I  was  glad  to  hear  Harry  say  he  liked  Frederic 
Harvey.  It  would  have  been  hard,  if  he  had  not. 
And  yet  I  am  not  sure  that  I  like  him  very 
much  myself.  I  am  grateful  for  the  preference  he 
shows  for  my  society ;  but  I  cannot  meet  as  I  would 
his  evident  desire  for  intimacy.  How  true  is  what 
South  says  :  —  "  That  heart  shall  surrender  itself 
and  its  friendship  to  one  man,  at  first  view,  which 
another  has  long  been  laying  siege  to  in  vain  "  ! 


MONDAY,  April  8,  1844. 

THOSE  full  days  must  still  furnish  these.  —  My 
walk  with  Harry  was  the  first  of  last  Monday's 
pleasures.  Roaming  over  our  fields  with  him,  I 
found  myself  now  in  one,  now  in  another  European 
scene  ;  and  everywhere,  hardly  speaking  of  himself, 
he  set  his  individual  stamp  on  every  object  he  called 
up  before  me.  He  had  seen  and  felt  with  his  own 
eyes  and  heart ;  and  everywhere  had  been  disclosed 
for  him  those  special  sympathies  which  Nature  and 
the  works  of  genius  hold  for  each  separate  human 
soul. 

Florence  will  always  be  dear  to  me  among  Italian 
cities  because  it  was  so  dear  to  Harry.  He  has 
taught  me  to  love,  beside  those  greatest  names  in 
Art  familiar  to  us  all  from  infancy,  and  which  we 
have  chiefly  in  mind  when  we  long  for  Europe, 
others  less  universally  cherished,  and  for  which  I 
had  before  only  a  vague  respect  which  I  should 
have  found  it  hard  to  justify. 

Rome  is  no  longer  for  me  merely  the  Rome  I 
have  read  of.  With  the  distant  historic  interest  is 
now  mingled  one  near  and  familiar.  Harry's  favor- 
ite spots  are  already  mine.  I  would  walk  on  the 
green  turf  where  the  altar  to  Hercules  stood,  in  that 
6 


82  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

oldest  time  when  monuments  were  raised  to  benefac- 
tors, and  not  yet  to  oppressors.  I  would  bring  away 
an  ivy-leaf  from  the  ruined  heap,  the  ever  "recent" 
tomb  of  the  young  Marcellus.  I  would  gather 
white  daisies  on  the  path  along  which  Saint  Agnes 
was  borne  to  the  grave,  which  was  to  become  a 
shrine.  I  cannot,  but  you  will  for  me.  And  you 
will  find  the  little  chapel  on  the  Appian  Way  which 
marks  the  place  consecrated  in  popular  tradition  as 
that  where  Peter,  escaping,  met  Christ  "  going  up 
to  Rome  to  be  crucified  again,"  and  turned  back  to 
meet  his  martyrdom.  You  will  look  up  from  the 
Ponte  Molle  to  the  beautiful  blue  Italian  sky,  where 
the  symbol  of  suffering  appeared  as  the  sign  of 
victory. 

When  you  are  in  Europe,  old  Europe,  do  not 
carry  about  with  you  among  the  monuments  of  its 
past  all  the  superiorities  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Respect  the  legend.  Our  age  does  not  produce  it, 
but  it  is  the  part  of  our  inheritance  we  could  least 
do  without.  Be  reverent  before  the  monuments  of 
the  early  Christian  martyrs  :  they  are  true  shrines. 
With  the  people  they  have  not  yet  lost  their  sacred- 
ness,  and  have  not  yet  lost  their  use.  Faith  in 
something  stronger  than  violence  and  nobler  than 
rank  is  kept  alive  by  the  homage  paid  to  the 
courageous  defiers  of  older  usurpations  and  oppres- 
sions. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  83 

When  we  came  in,  we  found  the  Doctor  in  excel- 
lent spirits  and  in  excellent  humor.  He  had  not 
been  idle  that  morning.  He  had  been  at  work  over 
his  pressed  flowers,  and,  owing  to  the  dry  weather 
of  the  last  two  days,  had  had  no  trouble  with  them. 
I  proposed  to  take  him,  after  breakfast,  to  a  piece 
of  marsh  land  where  I  thought  he  might  find  some- 
thing to  interest  him. 

Harry  again  left  the  table  first.  He  had  made 
an  engagement  with  Karl  and  Fritz.  We  were  to 
find  him  at  the  place  where  they  were  at  work, 
which  was  almost  on  our  way.  The  Doctor  wanted 
an  hour  or  two  more  for  his  flowers.  While  he 
was  busy  with  them,  I  occupied  myself  with  the 
books  which  Harry  had  brought  me. 

We  set  off  for  the  marshes.  We  walked  the 
first  part  of  the  way  in  silence,  or  nearly  so,  only 
exchanging  now  and  then  an  observation  on  the 
weather  or  scenery,  not  very  earnest.  "  How  we 
miss  Harry  Dudley  !  "  I  was  just  saying  within 
myself,  when  the  Doctor  made  the  same  exclama- 
tion aloud.  I  wanted  nothing  better  than  to  hear 
him  talk  of  Harry  again.  I  saw  he  was  ready,  and 
turned  to  him  with  a  look  of  expectation  which  he 
understood. 

"  I  told  you  I  had  known  Harry  all  his  life  ;  and 
so  I  have.  But  our  friendship  began  when  he  was 
about  five  years  old.  The  time  before  that  has 


84  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

left  me  only  a  general  remembrance  of  his  singular 
beauty  and  a  certain  charming  gayety  that  seemed 
to  lighten  the  air  all  about  him.  But  I  went  one 
day  to  his  father's  'house  in  the  country  with  some 
friends  I  wanted  to  introduce  there,  —  strangers. 
There  was  no  one  at  home,  the  man  who  answered 

our  knock  said,  except He  stepped  back,  and 

there  came  forward  this  lovely  child,  who  received 
us  in  due  form,  regretted  his  father's  absence,  con- 
ducted us  in,  ordered  refreshments  for  us,  and,  in 
short,  did  the  honors  of  the  house  with  the  ease  and 
courtesy  of  a  man  of  society,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
with  a  sweet,  infantile  grace  not  to  be  described. 
I  was  content  with  Young  America  that  day. 
Harry  and  I  have  been  intimates  ever  since  then. 
We  had  our  little  differences  from  the  first,  just  as 
we  have  now.  I  thought  my  twenty  years'  advan- 
tage in  experience  gave  me  a  right  to  have  my 
judgments  accepted  without  being  examined;  but 
he  took  a  different  view  of  my  claims.  When  I 
went  out  to  his  father's,  I  always  used  to  look  the 
little  fellow  up,  —  in  the  garden,  or  in  the  barn,  or 
wherever  he  might  be.  As  soon  as  I  appeared,  his 
eyes  took  a  merry  sparkle,  as  if  he  knew  there  was 
good  sport  ahead :  and  so  there  was,  for  both  of 
us.  He  maintained  his  side  with  an  originality  and 
quaint  humor  that  made  a  debate  with  him  a  very 
entertaining  exercise.  Some  of  his  childish  sayings 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  85 

have  stayed  in  my  mind,  though  many  wiser  things 
have  passed  out  of  it." 

The  Doctor  enjoyed  his  thoughts  a  little  while  ; 
and  then,  with  a  graver,  and  something  of  a  confi- 
dential tone,  — 

"  If  Harry  should  talk  to  you  about  his  future, 
do  not  encourage  that  little  vein  of  Quixotism  that 
runs  in  his  blood." 

"  The  enterprise  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  was 
somewhat  Quixotic,  —  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Certainly  it  was ;  you  would  not  have  found 
me  among  them." 

Again  a  silence,  which  I  left  the  Doctor  to  break. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  need  not  begin  to  disturb  myself 
already.  He  will  not  enter  upon  active  life  before 
he  has  prepared  himself  well.  That  I  know.  And 
preparation,  as  he  understands  it,  involves  long 
work  and  hard.  But  I  sometimes  almost  think  in 
good  earnest  that  he  has  come  into  the  world  in  the 
wrong  age.  He  is  made  for  great  times,  and  he  has 
fallen  on  very  little  ones.  These  are  the  days  of 
the  supple  and  the  winding,  not  of  the  strong  and 
the  straightforward." 

"  Since  he  has  been  sent  to  these  times,"  I  an- 
swered, "  without  doubt  his  part  in  them  has  been 
marked  out  for  him." 

Dr.  Borrow's  brow  lowered.  It  seeme(J  he  had 
a  misgiving  that  the  part  allotted  to  Harry  might 


86  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

not  be  that  which  he  himself  would  have  assigned 
to  him. 

Here  some  flowers  at  a  little  distance  caught  the 
Doctor's  eye,  and  he  ran  off  to  examine  them. 
They  were  not  to  his  purpose,  and  were  left  to  nod 
and  wave  away  their  life  unconscious  that  a  great 
danger  and  a  great  honor  had  been  near  them. 
When  he  came  back,  the  cloud  had  passed.  He 
began  talking  pleasantly,  and  still  on  the  subject  on 
which  I  most  wished  to  hear  him  talk. 

Harry  has  not  always  been  an  only  son.  He  had 
once  a  brother,  to  whom  he  was  fondly,  even  pas- 
sionately, attached.  After  his  brother's  death,  a 
deeper  thoughtfulness  was  seen  in  him.  He  was 
not  changed,  but  matured  and  strengthened. 

"  You  still  see  the  fun  look  out  of  his  eyes  at 
times,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  and  his  laugh  has  a  qual- 
ity that  refreshes  and  refines  for  us  again  the  mean- 
ing of  the  good  old  word  '  hearty ' ;  but  mirthfulness 
is  no  longer  so  marked  a  characteristic  in  him  as  it 
once  was." 

When  we  came  in  sight  of  the  little  plantation 
prophetically  known  as  "  The  Grove,"  I  could  not 
help  calling  the  Doctor's  attention  to  it.  He  took 
a  much  more  flattering  interest  in  it  than  you  did, 
I  must  tell  you.  He  turned  his  steps  towards  it 
immediately,  commended  the  spaces  which  made 
full  allowance  for  growth,  and,  seating  himself  on 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  87 

one  of  the  benches,  —  according  to  you,  such  prema- 
ture constructions,  —  gave  me  a  dissertation  on  soils, 
very  entertaining  and  very  profitable.  When  he 
had  finished,  I  would  gladly  have  carried  him  back 
to  the  subject  from  which  the  sight  of  my  trees  had 
diverted  us,  but  I  felt  that  this  required  a  little 
skill :  I  had  known  him  repelled  by  a  question  of 
too  incautious  directness  from  a  topic  oh  which  he 
would  have  been  eloquent,  if  he  had  led  the  way  to 
it  himself.  However,  as  soon  as  we  were  once 
walking  forward  on  our  former  path  again,  his 
thoughts,  too,  returned  to  the  old  track.  Our  inti- 
macy had  ripened  fast  on  the  common  ground  of 
sympathy  we  had  found  in  the  grove.  He  was 
more  expansive  than  before,  and  revealed  a  latent 
gentleness  I  had  begun  to  suspect  in  him.  He 
went  on  to  tell  of  Harry's  infancy  and  childhood, 
and  to  relate  instances  of  his  early  daring,  self- 
reliance,  and  generosity  of  heart,  —  smiling,  in- 
deed, a  little  at  himself  as  he  did  so,  and  casting 
now  and  then  towards  me  a  glance  of  inquiry, 
almost  of  apology,  like  one  who  is  conscious  of 
being  indiscreet,  but  who  cannot  resolve  to  refrain. 
I  could  not  but  observe  that  the  anecdotes  related 
with  most  pleasure  illustrated  that  very  side  of 
Harry's  character  which  gave  the  Doctor  unea- 
siness. 

Karl  and  Fritz  were  employed  that  day  in  clear- 


88  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

ing  a  piece  of  ground  overgrown  with  brushwood. 
We  had  found  them  at  their  work  in  our  morning 
walk,  and  Harry  had  promised  to  come  back  and 
take  a  hand  in  it.  It  was  an  animated  scene  that 
the  Doctor  and  I  came  upon.  Before  we  reached 
it,  we  heard  a  pleasant  clamor  of  voices  and  laugh- 
ter. My  German  boys  are  faithful  workers,  and 
generally  cheerful  ones  ;  but  now  they  carried  on 
their  task  with  an  ardor  and  an  hilarity  which 
doubled  their  strength,  and  gave  them  an  alertness 
which  I  had  thought  was  not  of  their  race. 

"Will  you  let  me  finish  my  stint?  "  Harry  cried, 
as  soon  as  we  were  near  enough  to  answer  him. 
The  merry  light  in  his  eye  and  the  gleeful  earnest- 
ness of  his  manner  brought  up  to  me  the  little  boy 
of  whom  the  Doctor  had  been  talking  to  me.  He 
was  taking  the  lead.  He  could  not  have  been  prac- 
tised in  the  work ;  but  the  strong  sweep  of  his  arm, 
his  sure  strokes,  did  not  speak  the  novice.  He  di- 
rected and  encouraged  his  assistants  in  familiar  and 
idiomatic  German,  which  made  me  feel  that  my 
carefully  composed  sentences  must  be  somewhat 
stilted  to  their  native  ears. 

Old  Hans  found  himself  there,  too,  drawn  by  I 
don't  know  what  attraction,  —  for  a  share  in  this 
work  did'not  belong  to  his  day's  plan.  He  was  not 
taking  a  principal  part  in  it ;  he  had  a  hatchet  in  his 
hand  and  chopped  a  little  now  and  then  in  a  care- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  89 

less  and  fitful  way,  but  he  was  chiefly  occupied  in 
observing  the  amateur,  whose  movements  he  fol- 
lowed with  an  admiration  a  little  shaded  by  incre- 
dulity. He  stood  like  the  rustic  spectator  of  an 
exhibition  of  legerdemain,  his  applause  restrained 
by  the  displeasure  of  feeling  himself  the  subject  of 
an  illusion. 

But  over  the  boys  Harry's  ascendancy  was  al- 
ready complete :  not  only  did  their  bush  -  scythes 
keep  time  with  his,  but  their  voices,  when  they  an- 
swered him,  and  even  when  they  spoke  to  each 
other,  were  more  gently  modulated,  —  their  very 
laugh  had  caught  something  of  the  refinement  of 
his.  .  When  afterwards  in  my  talks  with  him  he 
unfolded,  among  his  plans  for  the  future,  a  favorite 
one  of  leading  a  colony  to  some  yet  unsettled  region, 
I  felt,  remembering  this  scene,  that  he  was  the  man 
for  it. 

Hans  was  won  over  before  we  left  him.  When 
we  arrived,  he  had  searched  my  face  with  a  look 
which,  at  the  same  time  that  it  asked  my  opinion 
of  the  stranger,  gave  me  to  understand  that  he 
himself  was  not  one  to  be  dazzled  by  outward  show. 
As  we  were  going,  his  eye  caught  mine  again  :  he 
gave  me  a  nod  of  satisfaction,  which  said  that  he 
had  at  last  made  up  his  mind,  and  that  it  was  one 
with  my  own.  Perhaps  he  had  been  aided  in  coming 
to  a  decision  by  the  care  with  which  Harry  deliv- 


90  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

ered  up  to  him  the  tools  he  had  been  using,  and  by 
the  frank  pleasure  with  which  the  volunteer  wood- 
man received  the  words  of  approbation  which  the 
veteran  could  not  withhold. 

I  cannot  write  you  the  whole  of  last  Monday's 
journal  to-night.  I  came  in  late.  The  weather  is 
fine  again,  and  I  took  a  long  day  in  the  field  to 
make  up  for  lost  time. 


TUESDAY,  April  9,  1844. 

WE  were  on  our  way  from  the  thicket  to  the 
marshes. 

The  Doctor  had  a  successful  morning.  The  tin 
case  was  always  opening  and  closing  for  some  new 
treasure.  Noon  found  him  in  high  good -humor. 
I  did  not  propose  to  go  home  for  dinner.  It  had 
been  arranged  with  Tabitha  that  we  should  take  it 
on  the  little  knoll  known  in  our  level  region  as 
Prospect  Hill.  We  found  two  baskets  in  the  shade 
of  its  two  trees.  Harry  and  I  unpacked  them,  the 
Doctor  superintending  and  signifying  cooperation 
by  now  and  then  putting  his  thumb  and  finger  to 
the  edge  of  a  dish  or  plate  on  its  way  to  the  turfy 
table.  Harry  filled  our  bottle  from  the  cool  spring 
that  bubbles  up  at  the  foot  of  the  'mound.  There 
was  a  log  under  one  of  the  trees,  affording  seats  for 
three,  but  we  left  it  to  the  Doctor,  and  took  our 
places  on  the  ground,  fronting  him,  on  either  side 
of  the  outspread  banquet. 

We  talked  of  plans  for  the  coming  week.  I  told 
over  our  few  objects  of  modest  interest,  and  the 
names  of  such  of  our  neighbors  as  could  lay  claim 
to  the  honor  of  a  visit  from  Dr.  Borrow,  or  could  in 


92  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

any  degree  appreciate  his  society.  The  nearest  of 
these  was  Westlake. 

"  We  have  been  at  Westlake's,"  said  the  Doctor ; 
"  we  passed  a  day  and  night  with  him.  He  pressed 
us  to  stay  longer,  and  I  was  very  well  amused 
there  ;  but  Harry  looked  so  plainly  his  eagerness  to 
be  on,  and  his  fear  lest  I  should  allow  myself  to  be 
persuaded,  that  I  put  your  hospitable  neighbor  off 
with  a  promise  to  give  him  another  day,  if  we  had 
tune,  after  we  had  been  here.  Harry  has  all  along 
wanted  to  secure  the  visit  here  as  soon  as  possible, 
for  fear  something  or  other  should  interfere  with  it. 
I  believe,  if  I  had  proposed  it,  he  would  even  have 
put  off  going  to  the  Harveys,  old  friends  as  they 
are.  You  must  know  that  you  have  been  his  load- 
star from  the  first." 

Very  much  pleased,  yet  surprised,  I  looked  at 
Harry.  His  color  deepened  a  little  as  he  an- 
swered, "  I  have  heard  Selden  speak  of  you  ;  but  it 
was  after  we  met  Mr.  Shaler  that  I  had  so  great  a 
desire  to  know  you." 

Here  the  Doctor  took  up  the  word  again  :  — 

"  We  met  Shaler  in  a  great  forlorn  tavern  at 
Mantonville,  quite  by  chance.  We  had  n't  been  in 
the  house  half  an  hour  before  Harry  and  he  found 
each  other  out.  I  had  just  had  time  to  give  some 
orders  up-stairs  for  making  my  room  a  little  hab- 
itable, —  for  we  were  going  to  pass  a  day  or  two 


FIFTEEN    DAYS.  93 

there,  —  and  came  down  to  look  about  me  below. 
There  I  find  Harry  walking  up  and  down  the  breezy 
entry  with  a  stately  stranger,  engaged  in  earnest 
and  intimate  conversation.  Presently  he  comes  to 
ask  me  if  it  would  be  agreeable  to  me  to  have  our 
seats  at  the  table  taken  near  Mr.  Charles  Shaler's, 
who,  it  seemed,  was  by  two  days  more  at  home 
than  we  were.  Of  course  it  was  agreeable  to  me 

O 

in  that  populous  No  Man's  Land  to  sit  near  any  one 
who  had  a  name  to  be  called  by.  And  the  name 
was  not  a  new  one.  I  had  never  seen  Charles 
Shaler,  —  Colonel  Shaler,  as  he  is  called,  —  of  Meta- 
pora ;  but  I  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  him,  for  he 
is  own  cousin  to  the  Harveys.  I  felt  sure  that  this 
was  the  man.  His  appearance  agreed  perfectly 
with  the  description  given  me,  and  then  Harry's 
foregathering  with  him  so  instinctively  was  a  proof 
in  itself.  I  found  him  very  agreeable  that  day  at 
dinner,  though,  and  continued  to  find  him  so,  except 
when  he  mounted  his  hobby ;  then  he  was  insup- 
portable. There  's  no  arguing  with  enthusiasts. 
They  are  lifted  up  into  a  sphere  entirely  above  that 
of  reason.  And  when  they  have  persuaded  them- 
selves that  the  matter  they  have  run  wild  upon  is  a 
religious  one,  they  're  wrapped  in  such  a  panoply 
of  self-  righteousness  that  there  's  no  hitting  them 
anywhere.  You  may  demonstrate  to  such  a  man 
as  Shaler  the  absurdity,  the  impracticability,  of  his 


94  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

schemes :  he  seems  to  think  he  's  done  his  part  in 
laying  them  before  you ;  he  does  n't  even  show  you 
the  attention  to  be  ruffled  by  your  refutation,  but 
listens  with  a  complacent  politeness  that  is  half-way 
to  an  affront.  However,  I  had  my  little  occupa- 
tions, and  he  and  Harry  used  to  found  Utopias 
together  to  their  own  complete  satisfaction,  what- 
ever good  the  world  may  derive  from  their  vis- 
ions.—  Does  Shaler  ever  come  here  now?  " 

"  From  time  to  time  he  appears,  unlocks  the  old 
house,  and  walks  through  the  empty  rooms." 

"  I  hear  that  his  plantation  is  going  to  ruin." 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  a  melancholy  sight." 

"  We  passed  by  it  on  our  way  here  from  West- 
lake's.  But  we  saw  only  the  fine  trees  on  the  bor- 
der. We  did  not  enter.  Why  does  n't  he  sell  it, 
let  it,  have  it  occupied  by  some  one  who  might 
get  a  support  from  it  ?  Or  does  he  carry  his  respect 
for  liberty  so  far  that  he  thinks  it  a  sin  for  a  man  to 
compel  the  earth  to  supply  his  needs  ?  " 

"  He  is,  as  you  say,  an  enthusiast.  He  regards 
the  culture  of  the  earth  as  a  religious  work,  and 
thinks  it  sacrilege  to  carry  it  on  in  the  frantic  pur- 
suit of  exorbitant  gain,  watering  the  innocent  soil 
with  tears  and  the  painful  sweat  of  unrewarded 
labor.  But  he  has  not  given  up  the  hope  of  re- 
turning." 

"  What !  does  he  repent  his  rashness  already  ?  " 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  95 

"  No  ;  but  he  loves  his  native  State,  and  believes 
in  it." 

"  Nobody  interferes  with  Harvey  ;  nobody  ob- 
jects to  his  reforms,"  said  the  Doctor,  after  a  little 
silence. 

"  Because  they  lead  to  nothing,"  answered  Harry. 

"  They  have  led  to  giving  him  a  splendid  income, 
and  to  giving  his  people  as  much  comfort  as  they 
can  appreciate,  and  as  much  instruction  as  they  can 
profit  by.  Harvey  is  really  a  religious  man.  He 
regards  his  relation  to  his  slaves  as  a  providential 
one,  and  does  not  believe  he  has  a  right  to  break  it 
off  violently,  as  Shaler  has  done." 

I  had  all  along  tried,  in  these  discussions,  to 
maintain  an  impartial  tone,  confining  myself  to  a 
simple  statement  of  facts,  and  leaving  the  contro- 
versy to  the  Doctor  and  Harry ;  but  I  had  been 
gradually  losing  my  coolness,  and  found  myself 
more  and  more  drawn  to  take  a  side.  The  repeti- 
tion of  this  reflection  upon  Shaler  was  more  than 
I  could  bear. 

"  There  is  certainly,"  I  said,  "  a  wide  difference 
between  Shaler's  view  of  the  relation  of  the  mas- 
ter to  his  laborers  and  Harvey's.  Shaler  believed 
that  these  dependent  beings  were  a  charge  intrusted 
to  him  by  their  Maker  and  his.  As  unto  him  more 
had  been  given  than  unto  them,  of  him,  he  knew, 
more  would  be  required.  Harvey  supposes  that 


96  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

these  inferior  creatures  have  been  given  to  him  for 
his  use.  His  part  is  to  supply  them  with  sustenance, 
and  to  show  them  so  much  of  kindness  and  indul- 
gence as  is  consistent  with  keeping  them  in  the  con- 
dition to  which  they  have  been  called  ;  theirs  is  to 
serve  him  with  all  their  soul  and  all  their  strength, 
to  render  him  an  unqualified  obedience,  to  sub- 
ordinate even  the  most  sacred  ties  of  nature  to  their 
attachment  to  him.  Here  is,  indeed,  no  danger  to 
slavery.  Ameliorations,  under  such  conditions,  for- 
tify instead  of  undermining  it.  The  sight  of  an  ap- 
parent well-being  in  this  state  pacifies  uneasy  con- 
sciences in  the  master-class;  while  the  slave,  subju- 
gated by  ideas  instilled  from  infancy,  not  less  than 
by  the  inexorable  material  force  which  incloses  him, 
finds  even  his  own  conscience  enlisted  in  his  oppres- 
sor's service,  steeled  and  armed  against  himself." 

"  You  wrong  Frank  Harvey,  if  you  suppose  he 
allows  his  slaves  a  mere  animal  support ;  he  has 
them  taught  what  is  needful  for  them  to  know." 

"  He  has  them  taught  just  so  much  as  shall  in- 
crease their  usefulness  to  him,  without  giving  them 
a  dangerous  self-reliance." 

"  Precisely,  so  far  as  secular  knowledge  is  con- 
cerned. And  it  is  possible  he  may  be  right  in  view 
of  their  interests  as  well  as  of  his  own.  But  he 
allows  them  religious  instruction  to  any  extent,  — 
takes  care  that  they  have  it." 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  97 

"  The  religious  instruction  allowed  by  Harvey, 
and  by  other  humane  slaveholders  who  maintain 
the  lawfulness  of  slavery,  inculcates  the  service  of 
the  earthly  master  as  the  fulfilment  of  the  practi- 
cal service  of  God  on  earth.  For  the  rest,  the 
slaves  are  allowed  to  look  forward  to  another  world, 
to  which  this  life  is  a  sorrowful  passage,  —  whose 
toils,  pains,  and  privations,  however  unnecessary 
and  resultless,  are,  if  only  passively  accepted,  to  be 
compensated  by  proportionate  enjoyments." 

"  This  constitutes,  then,  the  whole  of  the  much 
talked-of  religion  of  your  negro  Christians  ?  " 

"  Of  too  many ;  but  the  promise,  'Ask,  and  ye 
shall  receive,'  was  made  to  them  as  to  all.  Even  to 
the  slave-cabin  has  been  sent  the  Comforter  who 
teacheth  all  things.  But  we  were  speaking  not  so 
much  of  the  religion  of  the  slaves  as  of  the  relig- 
ious instruction  given  or  allowed  them  by  their  mas- 
ters. It  is  necessarily  circumscribed,  as  I  have  told 
you." 

"  What  was  the  creed  inculcated  upon  Colonel 
Shaler's  protege's  ?  " 

"  They  were  taught  that  life,  even  earthly  life,  is 
a  sacred  and  precious  gift,  for  which  they  were  to 
show  themselves  grateful  by  keeping  it  pure  and 
noble  and  by  filling  it  with  useful  work.  They 
were  taught  that  duty  to  God  consists  not  in  mere 
acquiescence,  but  in  active  obedience.  They  were 
7 


98  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

taught  that  there  are  earthly  duties  which  no  hu- 
man being  can  lay  down ;  that  on  the  relation  of 
husband  and  wife,  of  parent  and  child,  all  other 
human  relations  are  founded.  In  short,  Shaler 
recognized  men  in  his  slaves.  He  attributed  to 
them  the  natural  rights  of  men,  and  the  responsi- 
bilities of  civilized  and  Christian  men." 

"  And  his  neighbors  unreasonably  took  umbrage  ! 
Mind,  I  am  no  upholder  of  slavery.  I  am  merely 
speaking  of  what  is,  not  of  what  ought  to  be.  A 
slaveholder,  meaning  to  remain  one,  can  yield  noth- 
ing in  principle,  let  him  be  as  indulgent  as  he  will 
in  practice.  What  becomes  of  his  title  in  the  slave- 
family,  if  the  slave-father  has  one  that  he  is  relig- 
iously bound  to  maintain  and  the  rest  of  the  world 
to  respect  ?  The  master  is  the  owner  no  longer. 
The  property  has  died  a  natural  death." 

So  slavery  dies  before  Christianity  without  formal 
sentence. 

"  But,"  the  Doctor  began,  in  a  different  tone, 
passing  lightly  from  a  train  of  argument  which 
might  have  led  him  where  he  had  not  meant  to  go, 
"  I  should  never  have  taken  Shaler  to  be  the  lowly- 
minded  man  you  represent  him.  I  cannot  imagine 
his  people  addressing  him  with  the  familiarity  that 
even  Harvey  permits  ;  still  less  can  I  think  of  him 
as  treating  them  with  the  good-natured  roughness 
of  your  neighbor  Westlake." 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  99 

"  I  have  never  seen  him  followed  about  his  place 
by  a  crowd  of  begging  children,  nor  throwing  down 
coppers  or  sugar-plums  to  be  scrambled  and  squab- 
bled for." 

"  Nor  tweaking  their  ears,  I  suppose,"  broke 
in  the  Doctor,  laughing,  "  nor  pulling  their  hair 
to  make  them  squeal  and  rub  their  heads,  and 
grin  gratefully  under  the  flattering  pain  of  mas- 
ter's condescension.  I  have  witnessed  these  little 

urbanities.      I  have  not  met  with  a  case  of  the 

• 

hailing  with  sugar-plums ;  but  I  have  known  West- 
lake  pelt  his  people  with  some  pretty  heavy  oaths, 
which  were  as  acceptable,  to  judge  by  the  bobbings 
and  duckings  and  mowings  with  which  they  were 
received.  He  is  very  fond  of  his  people,  he  tells 
me,  and  especially  of  a  distinguished  old  crone  who 
was  his  nurse,  and  who  is  to  be  gratified  with  a 
majestic  funeral.  She  was  impartially  graced  with 
his  emphatic  compliments,  and  did  her  utmost  to 
make  an  adequate  return  in  'nods  and  becks  and 
wreathed  smiles.'  So  I  suppose  it  was  understood 
that  he  was  expressing  himself  in  the  accepted 
terms  of  patrician  endearment.  Probably  Shaler's 
affection  for  his  wards  was  not  so  demonstrative  ?  " 
"  There  was  in  his  manner  to  them  a  considerate 
kindness,  —  not  familiar,  yet  intimate  ;  in  theirs  to 
him  an  affectionate  reverence.  He  was  well  fitted 
to  be  the  chief  of  a  primitive  people." 


100  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

"  He  would  have  been  sure  of  election  in  the 
days  when  being  taller  by  the  head  and  shoulders 
than  the  common  crowd  was  a  qualification." 

"  He  had  the  qualification  of  the  ordained  as  well 
as  that  of  the  popular  leader :  'A  comely  person, 
and  the  Lord  is  with  him.'  This  last  is  the  mark 
of  the  true  rulers  by  divine  right,  —  of  the  men  who 
seem  framed  to  be  the  conductors  of  higher  influ- 
ences. The  less  finely  organized 

" '  Know  them,  as  soon  as  seen,  to  be  their  lords, 
And  reverence  the  secret  God  in  them.' " 

Harry's  beautiful  face  was  wonderfully  illumi- 
nated. Strange,  this  unconscious  consciousness  of 
the  elect ! 

"  The  relation  of  master  and  slave,"  I  went  on, — 
for  the  Doctor  did  not  offer  to  speak,  —  "  is,  in  Sha- 
ler's  opinion,  a  most  perverted  and  unnatural  one ; 
but  he  believes  in  that  of  protector  and  protected. 
The  love  of  power,  the  instinct  of  dominion,  is 
strong  in  him.  Perhaps  it  must  be  so  in  those  who 
are  to  be  called  to  its  exercise.  '  I  know  thy  pride,' 
David's  elder  brother  said  to  him,  when  the  boy  left 
the  charge  of  his  few  sheep  to  offer  himself  as  the 
champion  of  a  nation.  But  Shaler's  ambition  was 
directed  by  the  precept,  '  Let  him  who  would  be 
greatest  among  you  be  your  servant ' ;  —  whether 
deliberately,  or  by  the  spontaneous  flow  of  his  large, 
generous  nature,  I  do  not  know.  Whatever  supe- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  101 

riority  he  possessed,  whether  of  position,  education, 
or  natural  endowment,  he  employed  for  the  advan- 
tage of  the  people  under  his  care.  All  the  proceeds 
of  the  estate  were  spent  upon  it.  The  land  was 
brought  into  a  high  state  of  cultivation.  Its  pro- 
ductiveness was  not  only  maintained,  but  increased. 
Nor  was  beauty  neglected.  Groves  were  planted, 
marshes  drained,  ponds  formed.  The  old  cabins 
gave  place  to  new  and  pretty  cottages.  The  own- 
ers and  builders  were  encouraged  to  employ  their 
own  invention  on  them ;  thus  there  was  great 
variety  in  the  architecture.  Vines  planted  about 
them,  by  favor  of  our  kind  climate,  soon  draped 
them  luxuriantly,  harmonizing  the  whole,  and  giv- 
ing even  to  eccentricities  of  form  a  beauty  of  their 
own.  While  he  took  care  that  ability  and  energy 
should  enjoy  their  just  return  of  prosperity,  the  in- 
ferior, whether  in  body,  mind,  or  soul,  were  not 
Pariahs.  As  Shaler  believed  the  exercise  of  benefi- 
cent power  to  be  the  greatest  privilege  accorded  to 
mortals,  he  made  it  one  of  the  chief  rewards  of 
exertion." 

"  Was  the  privilege  appreciated  ?  "  asked  the 
Doctor.  ^ 

"  The  slave  of  a  tyrannical  master  is  too  often 
the  most  brutal  of  oppressors ;  but  disinterestedness 
and  tenderness  have  a  sympathetic  force,  no  less, 
surely,  than  rapacity  and  cruelty.  Besides,  with  a 


102  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

race  in  which  sense  of  honor  is  so  leading  a  charac- 
teristic as  in  the  African,  the  glory  of  being  the 
doer  and  the  giver,  the  shame  of  being  the  mere 
idle  recipient,  are  very  potent.  Shaler  was  not  too 
wise  and  good  for  dealing  with  ordinary  human  na- 
ture ;  he  was  considerate  of  innocent  weaknesses, 
even  of  those  with  which  his  nature  least  enabled 
him  to  sympathize.  He  found,  for  example,  that 
his  people  did  not  like  to  see  the  '  great  house '  on 
their  estate  surpassed  in  furniture  and  decoration 
by  the  mansions  of  neighboring  planters.  He  re- 
spected their  simple  pride.  He  understood  that  his 
house  was  their  palace,  their  state-house, —  that  their 
wish  to  embellish  it  was,  in  fact,  a  form  of  public 
spirit.  He  indulged  them  in  what  was  no  in- 
dulgence to  himself." 

"  Harvey  has  rather  the  advantage  of  him  there  : 
he  can  please  himself  and  his  people  at  the  same 
time.  How  long  have  you  known  the  Harvey  plan- 
tation, —  Land's  End,  as  Judge  Harvey  called  it, 
when  he  first  came  to  settle  here  ?  " 


WEDNESDAY,  April  10,  1844. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  the  Harvey  planta- 
tion ?  "  Dr.  Borrow  had  just  asked  me. 

"  Ten  years,"  I  answered.  "  I  was  there  for  the 
first  time  about  three  years  after  Mr.  Frank  Harvey 
came  back  from  Europe." 

"I  was  there  nearly  twenty -three  years  ago. 
Frank  and  I  had  just  left  Harvard.  •  We  were  both 
going  to  finish  our  studies  abroad.  We  were  to 
sail  together.  Frank  must  go  home  for  a  visit  first, 
and  asked  me  to  go  with  him.  I  saw  slavery  then 
for  the  first  time.  I  had  heard  enough  about  it 
before.  We  had  just  been'  through  the  Missouri 
storm.  I  did  not  find  it,  as  it  showed  itself  on 
Judge  Harvey's  place,  '  the  sum  of  all  villanies  ' ; 
though,  perhaps,  looking  back,  I  may  tKink  it  was 
the  sum  of  all  absurdities.  I  did  not  reason  or 
moralize  about  it  then.  I  was  hardly  eighteen, 
and  took  things  as  they  came.  But  to  judge  of 
what  has  been  done  on  that  plantation,  you  should 
have  seen  it  as  I  saw  it  in  '21.  Sans  Souci  would 
have  been  the  right  name  for  it.  Not  that  I  liked 
it  the  less.  I  made  none  of  these  wise  observations 
then.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  fresh  from  the  study 
of  dead  antiquity,  and  was  charmed  to  find  that  it 


104  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

was  n't  dead  at  all.  It  must  be  admitted,  there  is 
a  certain  dignity  in  the  leisurely  ease  of  primitive 
peoples,  past  and  present.  They  seem  to  think 
that  what  they  are  doing  is  just  as  important  as 
what  they  may  be  going  to  do.  We  moderns  and 
civilized  talk  a  good  deal  about  immortality ;  but 
those  simple  folks  have  a  more  vital  sense  of  it : 
they  seem  to  be  conscious  that  there  will  be  time 
enough  for  all  they  shall  ever  have  to  do  in  it. 
Old  Judge  Harvey  was  a  sort  of  pristine  man,  — 
about  as  easy  and  indolent  as  the  negroes  them- 
selves." 

"  He  was,  indeed,  of  the  old  type.  Formerly,  I 
believe,  planters  —  at  least  the  well-born  and  well- 
reputed  —  were  content,  if  their  estates  yielded 
them  the  means  of  living  generously  and  hospitably, 
without  display  or  excessive  luxury.  They  took 
life  easily,  and  let  their  people  do  the  same.  I  have 
heard  that  Judge  Harvey  moved  off  here,  from  one 
of  the  older  Slave  States,  when  the  money-making 
mania  came  in,  hoping  to  keep  up  for  himself  and 
his  people  the  primitive  regime  they  had  grown  up 
under.  I  believe  he  was  no  advocate  of  slavery." 

"  The  only  forcible  thing  about  him  was  his  dis- 
like of  it.  He  had  the  greatest  compassion  for  the 
slave  of  any  man  I  ever  saw,  and  with  the. best 
reason,  for  he  was  one  himself.  He  was  as  much 
the  property  of  his  worshippers  as  the  Grand  Lama. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  105 

He  always  entertained  the  intention  of  emancipating 
himself.  But  there  were  legal  forms  to  be  gone 
through  with.  To  encounter  them  required  an  im- 
mense moral  force.  His  hundred  tyrants  were,  of 
course,  all  as  happy  as  clams,  and  had  as  little 
thought  of  a  change  of  domicile.  So  there  was  noth- 
ing to  stir  him  up,  and  there  was  never  any  more 
reason  for  acting  to-day  than  there  had  been  yester- 
day. I  must  do  him  the  justice,  however,  to  say  • 
that  he  made  provision  for  his  son's  living  in  free- 
dom, in  case  he  should  choose  it.  In  spite  of  the 
loose  way  in  which  the  estate  was  managed,  it 
yielded,  as  of  its  own  free  will,  a  pretty  fair  income. 
The  old  man  spent  little,  and  so  put  by  really  a 
respectable  sum,  half  of  which  was  to  be  employed 
in  securing  an  independence  to  his  son,  and  the 
other  half  in  compensating  his  natural  proprietors 
for  the  loss  of  his  valuable  services.  Shaler  was 
not  original :  the  scheme  he  carried  out  in  the  end 
wras  old  Judge  Harvey's  exactly,  —  if,  indeed,  it  was 
his,  and  not  his  daughter's.  I  always  suspected  that 
it  originated  in  the  head  of  that  little  girl.  You 
know  Shaler  and  she  were  own  cousins.  The  aboli- 
tion vein,  they  say,  came  down  from  a  grandmother. 
At  any  rate,  Judge  Harvey's  plan,  as  he  detailed  it 
to  me,  was  to  colonize  his  blacks  in  a  Free  State, 
each  with  a  pretty  little  sum  in  his  pocket  for  a  nest 
egg.  He  had  taken  into  his  confidence No, 


106  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

there  was  no  confidence  about  it ;  the  Judge  was  as 
liberal  of  his  thoughts  as  of  everything  else  ;  there 
was  not  an  urchin  on  the  place  that  might  not  have 
known  what  was  planning,  for  the  fatigue  of  listen- 
ing ;  but  the  gentle  flow  of  the  Judge's  words  was 
heard  as  the  notes  of  the  birds  and  the  frogs  were, 

—  with  a  little  more  respect,  perhaps,  but  with  no 
more  inquiry  after  meaning.      He  had  taken,  not 
as  the   confidant,  then,  but  as   the  partner  of  his 
day-dreams,  a  man  who  governed  his  estate  for  him, 

—  as  far  as  it  was  governed,  —  one  of  the  blackest 
negroes  I  ever  saw,  and  one  of  the  cleverest,  by 
name  Jasper." 

"  Jasper  !  "  exclaimed  Harry. 

"  He  has  fallen  from  his  high  estate,  —  a  Belisa- 
rius,  only  not  quite  blind.  It  is  really  almost  touch- 
ing to  see  him  feebly  fussing  round^  doing  little 
odd  jobs  of  work  about  the  grounds  where  he  was 
once  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed.  At  the  time  I 
speak  of  he  was  in  his  glory.  It  was  worth  while  to 
see  him  holding  audience,  —  according  or  discarding 
petitions,  —  deciding  between  litigating  parties,  — 
pronouncing  sentence  on  offenders,  or  bestowing 
public  commendation  on  the  performer  of  some 
praiseworthy  act.  He  carried  on  the  farm  in  a  loose, 
Oriental  sort  of  way,  —  letting  the  people  eat,  drink, 
and  be  merry,  in  the  first  place,  and  work  as  much 
as  they  found  good  for  them,  in  the  second.  With 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  107 

all  this,  he  made  the  estate  do  more  than  pay  for 
itself.  It  was  he  who  carried  the  surplus  up  to 
Danesville  to  be  invested.  He  was  like  the  eldest 
servant  in  Abraham's  house,  who  ruled  over  all  that 
he  had.  Frank  treated  him  with  as  much  respect 
as,  I  dare  say,  Isaac  did  Eliezer.  And  I  ought  to 
mention  that  Jasper  kept  his  master's  son  very 
handsomely  supplied,  —  paid  off  his  college  debts 
too,  without  a  wry  look,  though  it  must  have  come  • 
hard  to  subtract  anything  from  the  hoard.  Our  Jas- 
per missed  it  in  not  having  their  schemes  carried 
into  effect  when  he  might.  He  could  have  pre- 
vailed, as  he  did  in  regard  to  some  other  matters,  by 
getting  his  master  embarked  in  the  preliminaries, 
and  then  persuading  him  that  '  returning  were 
as  tedious  as  go  o'er.'  But  possibly  Jasper  him- 
self, having  got  the  habit  of  power,  did  not  like 
to  lay  it  down  ;  or  perhaps  he  thought  he  must  al- 
ways have  the  store  yet  a  little  larger,  seeing  what 
Frank's  wants  were  likely  to  be.  And  then  it 
probably  never  occurred  to  him  that  a  daughter 
could  die  before  her  father.  At  any  rate,  it  was 
decided  that  the  Judge  should  arrange  the  matter 
by  will,  things  remaining  as  they  were  during  his 
life.  He  never  made  a  will,  any  more  than  he  ever 
did  anything  else  he  meant  to  do.  ^  Did  you  know 
him  ?  " 

"  I  remember  him  on]y  as  a  pale,  exhausted  old 


108  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

man,  drawn  about  in  a  garden-chair  by  Jasper,  who 
was  almost  as  sad  and  humble-looking  then  as  he  is 
now." 

"  It  was  already  over  with  his  reign  and  his 
projects.  All  was  at  an  end  when  Constance  died. 
Her  father  broke  down  at  once  and  forever.  She 
was  his  very  soul.  When  I  was  there  she  was  only 
thirteen,  but  she  was  art  and  part  in  all  her  father's 
plans,  —  if,  indeed,  they  were  not  hers.  If  she  had 
lived,  they  would  have  been  carried  out ;  —  though, 
as  far  as  that  is  concerned,  I  believe  things  are  bet- 
ter as  they  are.  But  her  brother  was  as  much  her 
subject  as  her  father  was.  There  was  a  force  about 
that  gentle,  generous  creature  !  It  was  a  force  like 
that  of  sunshine,  —  it  subdued  by  delighting.  You 
did  not  know  Constance  Harvey  ?  " 
"  I  have  seen  her  at  Colonel  Shaler's." 
"  She  recognized  what  her  father  did  not,  —  the 
necessity  of  some  preparation  for  freedom.  The 
law  against  letters  did  not  exist  then,  I  believe ;  I 
remember  them,  the  great  and  little,  painted  on 
boards  and  put  up  round  a  pretty  arbor  she  called 
her  school-house.  I  don't  know  whether  her  pupils 
ever  mastered  them  or  not ;  but  what  certainly  did 
prosper  was  the  class  for  singing,  and  that  for  recita- 
tion. I  had  not  seen  much  of  men  and  things  then, 
and  had  not  learned  to  distinguish  the  desirable  and 
the  practicable.  Even  I  came  under  the  illusion 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  109 

of  the  hour,  and  dreamed  liberty,  equality,  and  per- 
fectibility with  the  best.  Not  that  Constance  talked 
about  these  fine  things,  but  she  had  an  innate  faith 
in  them  of  the  sort  that  makes  mole-hills  of  moun- 
tains. Even  now,  looking  back  on  that  diligent, 
confident  child,  I  seem  to  feel  the  .'almost  thou 
persuadest  me.'  Poor  Constance  !  She  died,  at 
twenty- two,  of  overwork.  She  wore  herself  out  in 
efforts  to  bring  her  poor  barbarians  up  to  the  stand- 
ard her  imagination  had  set  for  them." 

Constance  Harvey  had  a  spirit  strong  enough  to 
h*ve  sustained  a  slighter  frame  than  hers  through 
all  the  fatigues  necessary  to  the  attainment  of  a 
great  end.  She  died,  not  of  her  work,  but  of  its 
frustration.  She  had  all  power  with  her  father, 
except  to  overcome  his  inertness.  To  this,  as 
years  went  on,  other  hindrances  were  added.  Her 
brother  married  a  fashionable  woman  and  lived  in 
Paris.  His  demands  forbade  the  increase  of  the 
reserved  fund,  and  soon  began  to  encroach  upon  it. 
She  urged  her  brother's  return..  He  replied,  that 
the  delicacy  of  his  wife's  health  made  the  climate 
of  France  necessary  to  her.  His  expenses  increased, 
instead  of  lessening.  Constance  saw,  coming  nearer 
and  nearer,  a  danger  far  more  terrible  to  her  than 
mere  pecuniary  embarrassment.  She  saw  that  her 
father  must  either  exercise  a  courage  that  she  had 
little  hope  of,  or  break  his  faith  with  Jasper,  —  with 


110  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

the  faithful  people  who  had  worked  for  them,  or 
rather,  as  she  viewed  it,  with  them,  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  a  common  object.  One  half  of  the 
fund  she  regarded  as  a  deposit,  —  as  a  sacred  trust. 
Until  her  brother's  claims  had  exhausted  the  portion 
always  intended  to  be  his,  she  combated  her  anxie- 
ties, and  kept  up  hope  and  effort.  Through  her 
genius  and  energy  the  income  of  the  estate  was 
increased,  the  expenses  diminished,  and  yet  the 
comforts  of  the  work-people  not  curtailed.  Jasper 
seconded  her  bravely.  But  the  hour  of  dishonor 
came  at  last,  —  came  hopeless,  irretrievable.  She 
struggled  on  a  little  while  for  her  poor  father's 
sake,  and  Jasper  exerted  himself  strenuously  for 
hers,  stimulating  the  people  to  renewed  industry  by 
his  warm  appeals.  Before,  he  had  roused  them 
with  the  hope  of  freedom  and  independent  wealth ; 
now,  he  urged  them  to  rescue  from  ruin  the  gener- 
ous master  who  had  meant  them  so  much  good. 
But  the  demands  from  Paris  increased  as  the  means 
of  supplying  them  diminished.  Debt  came,  and 
in  its  train  all  the  varied  anguish  which  debt  in- 
volves, where  human  souls  are  a  marketable  com- 
modity. Let  Dr.  Borrow  give  you  the  outside  of 
this  story,  now  that  you  have  the  key  to  it. 

"  Frank  and  I  were  not  much  tog-ether  after  we 

O 

got  to  Paris.  Our  worlds  were  different.  Frank 
was  going  from  ball  to  ball  and  from  watering-place 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  Ill 

to  watering-place  after  Flora  Westlake,  until  they 
were  married,  and  then  they  followed  the  same 
round  together.  His  father  wrote  to  them  to  come 
home  and  live  with  him,  so  Frank  told  me,  and  I 
believe  that  was  what  he  had  expected  to  do;  but 
Madame  Harvey  naturally  preferred  Paris  to  the 
World's  End  ;  so  there  they  stayed,  —  Frank  always 
meaning  to  go  home  the  next  year,  for  eight  years. 
Their  establishment,  by  the  way,  did  Jasper  great 
credit.  Then  he  heard  of  his  sister's  death :  they 
could  not  go  home  then  ;  it  would  be  too  sad.  But 
soon  followed  news  of  his  father's  illness :  that 
started  them.  On  the  voyage  to  New  York,  he 
met  with  this  Lenox,  liked  him,  and  engaged  him 
for  the  place  he  has  filled  so  satisfactorily.  He 
judged  wisely  :  Frank  has  an  excellent  head  for 
organizing,  but  no  faculty  for  administration.  Once 
at  home,  he  devoted  himself  to  his  plantation  as  his 
sister  had  done.  I  believe  her  example  has  had 
a  great  influence  with  him.  But  he  has  respected 
her  practice  more  than  her  theories.  He  is  content 
to  take  his  people  as  they  are,  and  to  make  them 
useful  to  themselves  and  to  him.  His  father  lived 
a  few  years,  but  did  not  meddle  with  anything. 
Frank  has  shown  an  ability  and  an  energy  that  no- 
body expected  of  a  man  of  leisure  and  of  pleasure  like 
him.  Except  a  short  visit  to  Europe,  two  summers 
ago,  here  he  has  been  steady  at  his  post  for  twelve 


112  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

years  through.  His  life  here  is  not  an  hilarious  one, 
for  a  man  of  his  tastes ;  but,  if  doing  one's  duty  is 
a  reason  for  being  happy,  Frank  Harvey  has  a  right 
to  be  so.  You  think  he  looks  sad,  Harry.  He 
does,  —  and  older  than  his  age  ;  but  I  am  afraid 
there  is  a  nearer  cause  than  you  have  found  for  it." 

The  Doctor  sat  silent  for  a  few  moments  with 
contracted  brows ;  then,  throwing  off  his  vexation 
with  an  effort,  began  again,  — 

"  Frederic  is  expected  home  in  a  week  or  two. 
Perhaps  we  shall  fall  in  with  him  somewhere  on 
our  road.  I  should  like  to  see  you  together  and 
hear  you  have  a  talk  about  slavery.  He  is  as  great 
a  fanatic  on  one  side  as  you  are  on  the  other." 

"  He  was  very  far  from  upholding  slavery  when 
I  knew  him.  At  school  he  used  to  be  indignant 
with  Northern  boys  who  defended  it.  He  used  to 
tell  me  terrible  things  he  had  himself  known.  The 
first  thing  I  ever  heard  of  Fred  made  me  like  him. 
A  New- York  boy,  who  made  the  passage  to  France 
with  him,  told  me  that  there  was  on  board  the 
steamer  a  little  mulatto  whom  some  of  the  other 
boys  teased  and  laughed  at.  Fred  took  his  part, 
used  to  walk  up  and  down  the  deck  with  him,  and, 
when  they  landed,  went  up  with  him  to  the  school 
he  was  going  to  in  Havre." 

"  You  were  not  on  board  ?  " 

«  No." 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  113 

"  Lucky  for  the  mulatto,  and  for  Fred  Harvey, 
too,  if  he  values  your  good  opinion,  —  and  he  values 
everybody's.  If  you  had  taken  the  boy  up,  Fred 
would  have  put  him  down." 

"  I  think  not,  then.  I  have  heard  that  he  has 
changed  since  I  knew  him." 

"  He  has  changed,  if  he  ever  admitted  anything 
against  slavery.  When  you  see  him,  you  can  serve 
up  to  him  some  of  his  own  stories." 

"  I  would  not  do  that ;  but,  if  he  introduces  the 
subject,  I  shall  say  what  I  think  of  slavery  as 
plainly  as  ever  I  did." 

"  He  certainly  will  introduce  it.  And  he  would 
not  be  at  all  embarrassed,  if  you  were  to  cast  up  his 
old  self  to  him.  He  would  admit  freely  that  in  his 
green  age  he  entertained  crude  opinions  which  time 
and  experience  have  modified.  You  must  be  pre- 
pared to  be  overwhelmed  with  his  learning,  though. 
He  is  a  great  political  economist,  —  as  they  all  are, 
for  that  matter,  down  here.  He  almost  stifled  me 
with  his  citations,  the  last  time  I  was  in  his  com- 
pany. When  he  was  in  Boston,  about  eight  months 
ago,  I  asked  him  to  dine.  He  exerted  himself  so 
powerfully  to  prove  to  me  that  slavery  is  the  most 
satisfactory  condition  for  ordinary  human  nature, 
and  to  persuade  me  in  general  of  the  wisdom,  hu- 
manity, and  Christian  tendencies  of  '  Southern  in- 
stitutions,' that  I  determined  not  to  invite  him 
8 


114  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

too  often,  for  fear  he  should  make  an  abolitionist 
of  me. 

"  However,  I  gave  half  the  blame  to  Shaler. 
His  conduct  was  really  a  reflection  upon  his  cousin 
Harvey,  who  had  been  something  of  a  celebrity. 
The  Harvey  plantation  was  one  of  the  sights  of  the 
State.  Fred  knew  that  his  father's  humanity  made 
a  part  of  his  own  prestige  in  Northern  society.  His 
filial  piety  took  alarm.  If  Shaler's  style  of  benevo- 
lence became  the  fashion,  Harvey's  would  be  obso- 
lete. He  must  either  follow  the  lead  of  another, 
and  so  take  a  secondary  place,  or  count  as  one  be- 
hind the  times.  Fred  appreciated  the  position  :  it 
was  a  question  of  condemning  or  being  condemned  ; 
of  course  there  was  no  question.  But  all  has  gone 
to  heart's  wish.  Shaler  has  passed  out  of  mind, 
and  Harvey's  is  still  the  model  plantation." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  have  nothing  to  find  fault 
with  in  Fred  but  his  dogmatism  and  his  pedantry," 
the  Doctor  began  again,  lowering  his  voice.  "After 
you  left  Paris,  Harry,  he  fell  in  with  intimates  not 
so  safe.  He  gives  his  father  anxiety,  —  has,  I  very 
much  fear,  even  embarrassed  him  by  his  extrava- 
gance." 

Harry  looked  pained,  but  made  no  reply.  The 
Doctor  expected  one,  but  having  waited  for  it  a  mo- 
ment in  vain,  went  back  to  the  dinner  which  had 
left  so  unfavorable  an  impression.  He  gave  some 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  115 

examples  of  Frederic's  strain  of  argument,  rather 
shallow,  certainly,  and,  for  so  young  a  man,  rather 
cold-blooded. 

"  I  thought,"  Harry  exclaimed  at  last,  with  emo- 
tion, "  that  I  had  .always  hated  slavery  as  much  as 
I  could  hate  it ;  but,  when  I  see  what  it  has  done 
to  men  whom  I  like,  —  whom  I  want  to  like,  — 
when  I  see  what  it  has  done" 

"  When  you  see  what  it  has  done  to  women  ?  " 
asked  the  Doctor,  as  Harry  hesitated  to  finish  his 
sentence.  "  All,  I  understand.  You  are  thinking 
of  that  garden  scene." 

The  Doctor  turned  from  Harry  and  addressed 
himself  to  me,  taking  up  his  narrative  tone. 

"  You  know  we  ought  to  have  been  here  three 

O 

days  "earlier.  The  delay  was  owing  to  that  Or- 
pheus escapade  I  told  you  of.  It  took  us  back  to 
Omocqua,  and,  once  there,  we  determined  to  give  a 
day  or  two  to  Egerton,  which  we  had  missed  before. 
The  cave  was  no  great  affair,  after  those  we  had 
seen ;  and  the  wonderful  flowers  that  grow  there 
turned  out  a  humbug,  as  I  knew  they  would.  How- 
ever, Egerton  proved  to  be  something  of  a  place, 
and  who  should  be  there  but  my  friend  Harvey 
himself,  to  whose  plantation  we  were  bound.  He 
had  his  carriage,  and  proposed  to  take  us  down  there 
with  him.  We  accepted,  excusing  to  ourselves  the 
breach  of  our  rule,  in  consideration  of  the  gratuitous 


116  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

tramp  we  had  taken  between  Omocqua  and  Tenpin- 
ville.  We  did  n't  start  until  afternoon,  so  it  was 
rather  late  when  we  arrived.  However,  Madame 
received  us  charmingly,  and  we  had  a  pleasant 
hour  or  two  talking  over  the  old  times  at  Paris  and 
Dieppe.  Nobody  else  appeared  that  evening,  and 
I  did  n't  inquire  after  anybody :  I  knew  Fred  was 
away,  and  the  other  children  were  children  when  I 
last  heard  of  them. 

"  I  had  a  room  that  looked  on  the  garden.  Harry 
was  in  early  in  the  morning,  —  not  too  early  for  me. 
I  was  already  some  time  dressed,  had  unscrewed 
my  press,  and  was  beginning  to  release  my  flowers, 
prizes  of  the  day  before.  Harry  knew  better  than 
to  interrupt  me,  and  I  sat  working  away  comforta- 
bly and  leisurely  while  he  stood  at  the  open  win- 
dow. Without,  not  far  off,  an  old  man  was  dressing 
a  border.  The  click,  click,  of  his  strokes,  not  very 
rapid  and  not  very  strong,  made  a  pleasant  accom- 
paniment to  the  other  pleasant  sounds,  —  such  as 
those  of  the  birds,  of  the  insects,  and  of  a  little  un- 
seen human  swarm  whose  hum  rose  and  fell  at 
intervals.  Suddenly,  notes  before  which  every- 
thing else  seemed  stilled  to  listen,  —  those  of  a  clear, 
rich  voice,  —  a  woman's  voice.  It  chanted  a  morn- 
ing hymn.  Every  word  was  distinctly  heard.  The 
precision  and  purity  of  the  tones  told  of  careful  train- 
ing, and  the  simplicity  of  the  delivery  showed  either 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  117 

high  breeding  or  a  fine  artistic  sense.  Was  the 
charm  received  through  the  ear  to  be  heightened  or 
dissolved  by  the  eye?  To  judge  whether  there  was 
anything  worth  getting  up  for,  I  looked  at  Harry. 
He  had  an  expression  —  awe-struck  shall  I  call  it  ? 
Yes,  but  with  a  soft,  delightful  awe.  I  took  my 
place  beside  him  where  he  stood  looking  down  into 
the  garden,  as  James  of  Scotland  looked  down  from 
the  Tower,  upon  the  fair  vision  flitting  among  the 
flowers,  and  wondered  what  name  could  be  sweet 
enough  to  call  it  by,  —  only  Harry  was  not  wonder- 
ing. It  was  I.  '  Margarita  ! '  he  said,  under  his 
breath,  and  quickly,  to  prevent  my  question.  And 
Margarita  it  ought  to  have  been  !  All  in  white, 
soft  white ;  fresh  and  cool  as  if  a  sea-shell  had  just 
opened  to  give  her  passage  ;  her  face  of  that  lovely 
pallor  which  makes  Northern  roses  seem  rude. 
What  two  years  could  do,  if  this  were  little  Maggie 
Harvey !  The  song  was  broken  off  abruptly,  just 
when,  recounting  the  blessings  of  the  season,  it  had 
come  to  the  opening  flowers.  The  theme  was  con- 
tinued, but  the  tone  was  changed.  The  poor  old 
man,  in  spite  of  an  immense  pair  of  iron  spectacles, 
with  half  a  glass  remaining  in  one  of  the  eye-holes, 
had  failed  to  distinguish  a  plant  of  price  from  the 
plebeian  crowd  that  had  shot  up  about  it.  There 
it  lay  on  the  ignoble  heap,  its  wilted  flowers  witness- 
ing against  him  !  Behold  our  Maggie  a  Megaera  1 


118 


FIFTEEN  DAYS. 


If  half  the  promises  she  made  the  old  offender 
were  fulfilled,  he  never  sinned  again.  But  I  don't 
believe  they  were  :  — 

"'Words  are  like  leaves;  and  where  they  most  abound, 
Much  fruit  beneath  them  is  not  often  found.' 

Jasper  trembled  under  hers,  though.  Yet  he  still 
had  thought  for  the  honor  of  the  family :  he  lifted 
his  eyes  meaningly  to  our  window ;  she  turned, 
perceived  us ;  and  you  should  have  seen  the  shame 
on  —  Harry's  face  !  " 


THURSDAY,  April  11,  1844. 

GOING  home,  we  made  a  long  circuit.  We  passed 
near  Piney's  plantation.  The  slaves  were  in  the 
field.  We  stopped  to  look  at  them.  They  all  seemed 
to  work  mechanically,  —  seemed  all  of  the  same  low 
type.  We  could  not  have  discerned  any  .differences 
of  character  or  capacity  among  them.  But  the  over- 
seer, who  stood  by,  whip  in  hand,  evidently  distin- 
guished shades  of  industry  or  reluctance. 

"  You  see  nothing  of  that  at  Harvey's,"  said  the 
Doctor,  as  we  walked  on  again.  "  You  see  nothing 
like  it  there,"  he  repeated,  as  Harry  did  not  reply. 

"  The  force  is  there,  whether  we  see  it  or  not," 
said  Harry.  "  Dr.  Falter  told  us  that  his  negroes 
never  thought  of  running  away.  Presently  we  saw 
the  bloodhounds." 

"  He  said  that  the  dogs  were  never  used." 
"  That  their  being  there  was  enough." 
"  Dr.  Falter  is  not  an  inhuman  man,  Harry." 
"  No,  indeed.     He  is  only  not  a  free  man." 
"  You  mean  to  say  these  precautions  are  a  neces- 
sity of  his  position.     It  is  true  ;    and  there  is  his 
justification.      He    has   a   good   heart ;    he   would 
rather  be  served  through  love  than  fear.     As  things 
are,  he  must  base  his  authority  on  both." 


120  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

"  Is  it  not  terrible,  when  law  and  opinion,  which 
should  restrain  from  tyranny,  compel  to  it  ?  " 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else." 

The  Doctor  himself  led  the  way  to  a  new  topic. 
He  stopped  to  admire  the  great  plain  which  sur- 
rounded us.  As  we  walked  on  again,  he  spoke  of 
our  magnificent  prairies,  of  the  pampas  of  South 
America,  of  the  landes  of  Gascony,  of  the  pusztas 
of  Hungaiy,  all  of  which  he  had  seen,  and  of  which 
he  discriminated  for  us  the  characteristic  features. 
He  spoke  of  the  love  which  the  inhabitant  of  these 
immense  extents  feels  for  them,  —  equal  to  that 
with  which  the  dweller  on  the  coast,  or  the  moun- 
taineer, regards  his  home  ;  a  love,  the  intensity  of 
which  is  due  to  the  emotions  of  sublimity  which 
they,  like  the  ocean  and -grand  highland  scenery, 
excite,  and  debarred  from  which,  he  whose  life  they 
have  exalted  pines  with  a  nameless  want.  '  The 
Doctor  passed  to  the  Campagna  of  Rome,  where 
Harry  was  at  home,  —  and  I,  too,  through  imagi- 
nation. Our  conversation  left  its  record  on  the 
scene  we  were  passing  through.  The  Doctor,  illus- 
trating his  descriptions,  pointed  out  now  this,  now 
that  feature  of  our  own  landscape.  The  name  he 
associated  with  it  rested  there.  Fidenae,  Antemnge, 
have  thus  made  themselves  homes  on  beautiful  un-  • 
dulations  of  our  Campagna,  never  to  be  dislodged 
for  me. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  121 

The  Doctor  left  us  presently,  as  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  doing  on  our  walks,  and  went  on  a  little 
before.  Harry  and  I  continued  to  talk  of  Italy,  —  of 
all  that  it  has  given  to  the  world  of  example  and  of 
warning.  We  talked  of  its  ancient  fertility  and 
beauty,  and  of  the  causes  of  its  decline.  We  talked 
of  its  earlier  and  later  republican  days;  of  its  be- 
trayal by  the  selfish  ambition  and  covetousness  of 
unworthy  sons ;  of  the  introduction  of  masses  of 
foreign  slaves ;  of  the  consequent  degradation  of  la- 
bor, once  so  honorable  there ;  of  the  absorption  of 
landed  property  in  a  few  hands  ;  of  the  gradual 
reduction  of  freemen  to  a  condition  hopeless  as  that 
of  slaves ;  of  the  conversion  of  men  of  high  race  — 
and  who  should  have  been  capable,  by  natural 
endowment,  of  what  humanity  has  shown  of  best 
and  greatest  —  into  parasites,  hireling  bravoes,  and 
shameless  mendicants  ;  of  the  revival  of  its  primitive 
heroism  in  its  early  Christians  ;  of  its  many  and 
strenuous  efforts  after  renovation  ;  of  the  successes 
it  attained  only  to  be  thrown  back  into  ruin  by  its 
misleaders  and  misrulers.  Harry  has  as  warm 
hopes  for  Italy  as  I  have,  and  his  nearer  knowledge 
of  her  people  has  not  rendered  his  faith  in  them 
less  confident  than  mine.  We  talked  of  the  value 
.  of  traditions,  and  especially  of  those  which  a  people 
cherishes  in  regard  to  its  own  origin  and  early  his- 
tory. I  found  that  Harry  had  interested  himself 


122  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

very  much  in  the  ancient  history  of  Italy,  and  in 
the  questions  concerning  the  origin  of  its  different 
races.  In  the  morning  I  had  seen  the  poetical  side 
of  his  mind,  and  had  received  an  impression  of  his 
general  culture.  I  now  became  aware  of  the  thor- 
oughness and  exactness  of  his  special  studies. 

We  came  to  Blanty's  farm.  The  Doctor  stopped 
at  the  gate  and  we  rejoined  him  there.  Blanty  was 
standing  before  his  door,  in  conference  with  a  tall, 
strong,  self -reliant -looking  black  man,  —  a  slave, 
but  a  slave  as  he  might  have  been  in  Africa :  the 
respectful  and  respected  aid,  companion,  adviser  of 
his  master.  Blanty,  seeing  us,  came  down  to  the 
gate  and  asked  us  to  go  in.  We  had  not  time ;  but 
we  had  a  little  talk  where  we  were.  Blanty  and  I 
discussed  the  future  of  our  crops.  He  was  well 
content  with  the  season  and  its  prospects.  He  had 
seen  Dr.  Borrow  and  Harry  on  Sunday.  A  single 
interview  at  a  common  friend's  makes  intimate 
acquaintance  out  here.  Blanty  was  quite  unre- 
served, and  praised  himself  and  everything  belong- 
ing to  him  as  frankly  as  ever  Ulysses  did.  He  is  a 
grand  good  fellow.  Dr.  Sorrow's  eye  rested  on 
the  black  man,  who  remained  where  his  master  had 
left  him,  in  an  attitude  for  a  statue,  —  so  firm  was 
his  stand,  so  easy,  so. unconscious. 

"  He  would  make  a  good  Othello,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor to  Blanty. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  123 

"  Yes,  it  is  Othello.  Mr.  Colvil  has  told  you 
about  him  ?  " 

"  Where  did  he  get  his  name  ? "  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"  My  mother  gave  it  to  him.  He  will  not  let 
himself  be  called  out  of  it.  He  never  knows  him- 
self by  it,  if  it  is  shortened.  He  is  a  native  African, 
though  all  of  his  life  that  he  can  remember  he  has 
passed  here.  His  mother  brought  him  away  in  her 
arms.  They  were  carried  to  Cuba  first,  and  re- 
shipped.  He  is  more  of  a  man  than  I  am,"  con- 
tinued Blanty,  who  is  enough  of  a  man  to  risk 
admitting  a  superior.  "  If  I  had  his  head  and  his 
tongue,  I  would  have  been  in  Congress  before 
this." 

"  Can  he  read  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  Can  and  does." 

"  But  how  does  that  agree  with  your  law  ?  " 

"  He  's  thirty  years  old,"  answered  Blanty. 
"  The  law  had  n't  taken  hold  of  reading  and  writ- 
ing when  he  had  his  bringing  up.  My  mother  gave 
him  as  careful  teaching  as  she  did  her  own  boys, 
and  he  got  more  out  of  it.  '  Search  the  Script- 
ures,' she  said,  was  a  plain  command ;  and  how 
could  a  man  search  the  Scriptures,  if  he  could  n't 
read  ?  But  he  works  as  well.  Things  here  look 
famously,  as  you  say ;  I  see  it  myself.  It 's  more 
to  his  praise  than  mine.  He  has  done  well  by  me ; 


124  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

I  should  like  to  do  well  by  him.  My  farm  's  larger 
than  I  want.  I  might  give  him  a  piece,  as  you 
have  your  German  ;  but  I  can't,  you  know.  It 's 
hard,  in  a  free  country,  that  a  man  can't  do  as  he 
would  with  his  own.  I  don't  want  to  send  him  off, 
and  he  does  n't  want  to  go.  I  married  late ;  if  I 
should  be  taken  away,  I  should  leave  my  children 
young.  I  'd  as  soon  leave  them  to  his  care  as  to  a 
brother's.  I  've  talked  it  over  with  him  ;  he  knows 
how  I  feel.  And  then,  he  's  married  his  wife  on 
Piney's  plantation.  Foolish  ;  but  I  did  n't  tell  him 
so.  I  knew  marriage  was  a  thing  a  man  had  n't  his 
choice  in.  I  sometimes  think  it  was  a  providence 
for  the  easing  of  my  mind." 

"  You  are  a  young  man,  Mr.  Blanty,"  said  the 
Doctor. 

"  I  am  forty-five." 

"  You  have  thirty  good  years  before  you,  at 
least." 

"  I  hope  so,  and  in  thirty  years  a  great  deal  may 
happen.  I  mean  right,  and  I  hope  God  will  bring 
things  out  right  for  me  somehow." 

After  we  left  Blanty's,  we  walked  on  in  silence 
for  a  time.  Then  the  Doctor  spoke  abruptly,  —  in 
answer  to  himself,  probably,  for  neither  Harry  nor 
I  had  said  anything  :  — 

"  What  then  ?  What  then  ?  Here  is  an  instance 
of  a  slave  capable  of  taking  care  of  himself,  —  that 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  125 

is  to  say,  of  a  man  out  of  place.  There  are  cases 
of  as  great  hardship  elsewhere.  Are  we  not  con- 
stantly hearing,  even  with  us,  of  men  who  have 
never  found  their  place  ?  A  Southern  planter 
would  feel  himself  very  much  out  of  place  any- 
where but  where  he  is,  —  and  very  much  out  of 
place  where  he  is,  in  changed  relations  with  his  peo- 
ple. Blanty  is  no  example.  Blanty  has  half  a  dozen 
slaves  perhaps  at  most,  with  whom  he  works  him- 
self. He  might  change  them  into  day-laborers  and 
hardly  know  the  difference.  But  Harvey,  West- 
lake,  Falter,  —  because  they  are  provided  for  too 
well,  as  you  seem  to  think,  —  will  you  dispossess 
them  altogether  ?  Why  all  sympathy  for  the  black  ? 
Have  not  the  whites  a  right  to  a  share,  —  our  own 
brothers  by  blood  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  a  large  share,"  Harry  answered.  "  But 
we  are  made  to  feel  most  for  those  who  have  few- 
est to  feel  for  them ;  we  offer  our  help  first  to  the 
helpless.  And  would  not  Mr.  Harvey  be  happier, 
if  there  were  no  whip  or  stocks  on  his  plantation, 
seen  or  unseen  ?  Would  not  Dr.  Falter  be  happier, 
if  his  bloodhounds  were  kept  only  as  curiosities  ?  I 
wish  them  both  happier,  —  and  I  wish  Blanty  hap- 
pier, who  seems  all  the  more  like  a  brother  to  me, 
since  he  can  see  one  in  Othello." 

"  Let  Blanty  talk,  who  has  a  claim.  If  he  can 
find  men  enough  in  his  own  State  who  agree  with 


126  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

him,  they  may  be  able  to  do  something.  We  have 
no  part  in  the  matter." 

"  We  take  a  part,  when  we  give  our  sympathy 
to  the  maintainers  of  slavery,  and  withhold  it  from 
such  as  Shaler,  our  truest  brothers,  —  from  such  as 
Bianty,  and  thousands  like  him,  whom  it  might 
strengthen  and  embolden." 

"  Harry,  you  are  a  Northerner.  You  belong  to 
a  State  where  you  need  not  know  that  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  slavery,  if  you  don't  inquire  after  it. 
Take  your  lot  where  it  has  been  given  to  you,  and 
be  thankful." 

"  I  am  neither  a  Northerner  nor  a  Southerner : 
I  am  an  American.  If  Massachusetts  is  dearer  to 
me  than  all  other  States,  it  is  only  as  our  little  farm 
at  Rockwood  is  dearer  to  me  than  all  other  farms :  I 
do  not  wish  the  rain  to  fall  upon  it  or  the  sun  to 
shine  upon  it  more  than  upon  others.  When  we 
met  an  Alabamian  or  a  Georgian  abroad,  was  he  not 
our  countryman  ?  Did  we  not  feel  ourselves  good 
Kentucks,  walking  through  beautiful  Kentucky  ?  " 

"  How  is  it,  Harry,  that  you,  who  love  your 
country  so  passionately,  who  take  such  pride  in  her 
institutions,  such  delight  in  her  prosperity,  will  yet 
fix  your  eyes  on  her  one  blemish,  will  insist  on 
suffering  pain  she  hardly  feels  ?  There  is  enough 
to  do.  Leave  slavery  where  it  is." 

"  It  will  not  remain  where  it  is." 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  127 

"  The  principles  on  which  our  national  institu- 
tions are  founded,  if  they  have  the  vital  force  you 
attribute  to  them,  will  prevail.  Let  patience  have 
its  perfect  work." 

"  Sloth  is  not  patience." 

"  The  world  is  full  of  evils.  You  have  not  found 
that  out  yet,  but  you  will.  You  have  spied  this 
one,  and,  young  Red-Cross  Knight,  you  must  forth- 
with meet  the  monster  in  mortal  combat.  Every 
country  has  its  household  foe,  its  bosom  viper,  its 
vampire,  its  incubus.  We  are  blessed  in  com- 
parison with  others ;  but  we  are  not  celestial  yet. 
We  are  on  the  same  earth  with  Europe,  if  we  are 
on  the  other  side  of  it.  We  have  our  mortal  por- 
tion ;  but,  young  and  strong,  our  country  can  bear 
its  incumbrance  more  easily  than  the  rest." 

"  She  can  throw  it  off  more  easily." 

"  Leave  her  to  outgrow  it.  Let  her  ignore,  for- 
get it." 

"  Prometheus  could  as  soon  forget  his  vulture !  " 

"  We  will  talk  of  something  else." 

We  talked  of  something  else  for  about  half  a  mile, 
and  then  the  Doctor,  turning  to  Harry,  said,  — 

"  There  is  enough  to  do ;  and  you,  of  all  persons, 
have  laid  out  enough,  without  embarking  in  a  cru- 
sade against  slavery.  Write  your  histories ;  show 
the  world  that  it  has  known  nothing  about  itself  up 
to  this  time ;  set  up  your  model  farm ;  aid  by  word 


128  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

and  example  to  restore  to  the  culture  of  the  ground 
its  ancient  dignity ;  cany  out,  or  try  to  carry  out, 
any  or  all  of  the  projects  with  which  your  young 
brain  is  teeming ;  but  do  not  throw  yourself  into 
an  utterly  thankless  work.  I  laugh,  but  I  am  in 
earnest.  I  do  hope  something  from  you,  Harry. 
Do  not  disappoint  us  all ! " 

"  It  is  the  work  of  our  time.  I  cannot  refuse 
myself  to  it." 

"  Who  calls  you  to  it  ?  Who  made  you  arbiter 
here  ?  From  whom  have  you  your  warrant  ?  " 

Harry  did  not  answer.     I  spoke  for  him  :  — 

"'From  that  supernal  Judge  who  stirs  good  thoughts 
In  every  breast  of  strong  authority, 
To  look  into  the  blots  and  stains  of  right'  " 

Harry  turned  to  me  with  a  look,  grateful,  earnest, 
nobly  humble  :  he  longed  to  believe  an  oracle  in 
these  words,  yet  hardly  dared. 

"  I  do  not  know  yet  whether  I  am  called  to  it," 
he  said,  after  a  few  moments  of  grave  silence ;  "  but 
I  stand  ready.  I  do  not  know  yet  what  I  am  worth. 
It  must  be  years  before  I  am  prepared  to  be  useful, 
if  I  can  be.  But  when  the  time  comes,  if  it  is 
found  that  I  have  anything  to  give,  I  shall  give  it 
to  that  cause." 

He  spoke  solemnly  and  with  a  depth  of  resolution 
which  showed  him  moved  by  no  new  or  transient 
impulse.  The  Doctor's  lips  were  compressed,  as  if 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  129 

he  forbade  himself  to  answer.  He  walked  away 
and  looked  at  some  flowers,  or  seemed  to  look  at 
them,  and  then  strolled  along  slowly  by  himself. 
We  observed  the  same  pace  with  him,  but  did  not 
attempt  to  join  him. 

When  we  came  near  the  grove,  Doctor  Borrow 
took  his  way  toward  it,  and  we  followed  him.  He 
sat  down  on  a  bench ;  I  took  my  place  beside  him, 
and  Harry  his,  as  usual,  on  the  grass  near  us.  The 
Doctor,  refreshed  by  the  little  interval  of  solitude, 
was  ready  to  talk  again. 

"  Do  not  make  me  out  an  advocate  of  slavery. 
I  am  not  fonder  of  it  than  you  are,  Harry.  .It  has 
brought  trouble  enough  upon  us,  and  will  bring  us 
worse  still." 

"  It  can  never  bring  upon  us  anything  worse 
than  itself." 

"  When  you  have  disposed  of  slavery,  what  are 
you  going  to  do  with  the  slaves  ?  " 

"  Slavery  disposed  of,  there  are  no  slaves.  The 
men  I  would  leave  where  they  are,  to  till,  the 
ground  as  they  till  it  now,  only  better.  There  has 
never  been  a  time  or  a  place  in  which  men  did  not 
work  for  their  family,  their  community,  their  State. 
The  black  man  will  work  for  his  family,  as  soon  as 
he  has  one,  —  for  his  community,  as  soon  as  he  is  a 
member  of  one,  — for  the  State,  as  soon  as  we  admit 
him  to  a  share  in  it." 
9 


130  FIFTEEN   DATS. 

"  You  will  not  dare  to  say  of  these  poor  beings 
that  they  are  capable  of  self-government  ?  " 

"  Which  of  us  would  dare  to  say  it  of  himself?  " 
replied  Harry,  reverently ;  "  and  yet  God  trusts  us." 

"  If  He  intends  for  them  what  He  has  bestowed 
on  us,  He  will  grant  it  to  them." 

"  Through  us,  I  hope." 

"  In  His  own  time. 

"  '  Never  the  heavenly  fruits  untimely  fall : 

And  woe  to  him  who  plucks  with  impious  haste !  '• 

Remember   the    words    of    your    favorite    Iphige- 
nia:  — 

" '  As  the  king's  hand  is  known  by  lavish  largess,  — 
Little  to  him  what  is  to  thousands  wealth, — 
So  in  the  sparing  gift  and  long-delayed 
We  see  the  careful  bounty  of  the  gods.'  " 

"  Those  are  the  words  of  a  Pagan  priestess," 
Harry  answered.  "  The  hand  of  our  God  is  not 
known  by  its  parsimony.  He  does  not  force  on  us 
what  we  will  not  accept,  but  His  bounty  is  limited 
only  by  our  trust  in  it.  Ask  large  enough  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  springing  up,  and  standing  before  us, — 

" '  Ask  large  enough !  and  He,  besought, 
Will  grant  thy  full  demand! '  " 

"  Who  says  that  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  The  greatest  religious  poet  of  the  old  time, 
translated  by  the  greatest  of  the  new,  —  David,  by 
Milton." 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  131 

It  was  I  who  answered,  —  for  Harry,  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts,  had  not  heard  the  question. 

"  You  uphold  him  I  "  cried  the  Doctor,  almost 
accusingly. 

He  rose  presently  and  walked  off  for  home. 
Harry  and  I  followed,  but  at  a  little  distance,  for 
he  had  the  air  of  wishing  to  be  alone. 

1  found  that  Harry's  interest  in  the  question  of 
slavery  was  not  new.  In  Europe,  it  had  pained 
him  deeply  to  see  the  injury  done  to  the  cause  of 
freedom  by  our  tolerance  of  this  vestige  of  bar- 
barism, — •  in  truth,  a  legacy  from  the  arbitrary  sys- 
tems we  have  rejected,  but  declared  by  the  ene- 
mies of  the  people  to  be  the  necessary  concomitant 
of  republican  institutions.  He  has  studied,  as  few 
have,  the  history  of  slavery  in  the  United  States, 
and  its  working,  political  and  social.  It  has  not 
escaped  him,  that,  though  limited  in  its  material  do- 
main, it  has  not  been  so  in  its  moral  empire  :  North, 
as  well  as  South,  our  true  development  has  been  im- 
peded. His  great  love  for  his  country,  his  delight 
in  what  it  has  already  attained,  his  happy  hopes  for 
its  future,  only  quicken  his  sight  to  the  dangers 
which  threaten  it  from  this  single  quarter.  He  sees 
that  not  only  the  national  harmony  is  threatened  by 
it,  but  the  national  virtue  ;  —  for  a  habit  of  accept- 
ing inconsistencies  and  silencing  scruples  must  infal- 
libly impair  that  native  rectitude  of  judgment  and 


132  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

sincerity  of  conscience  through  which  the  voice  of 
the  people  is  the  voice  of  God.  It  is  this  percep- 
tion, not  less  than  the  strong  call  the  suffering  of 
the  weak  makes  upon  every  manly  heart,  that  has 
brought  Harry  Dudley  to  the  conviction  that  the 
obliteration  of  slavery  is  the  work  of  our  time. 

We  talked  of  the  slave  ;  of  his  future,  which 
depends  not  more  on  what  we  do  for  him  than  on 
what  he  is  able  to  do  for  himself.  We  spoke  of  the 
self-  complacent  delusion  cherished  among  us,  that 
he  brought  his  faults  with  him  from  Africa,  and  has 
gained  his  virtues  here  ;  of  the  apprehension  conse- 
quent on  this  error,  that  what  is  original  will  cleave 
to  him,  while  that  which  has  been  imposed  is  liable 
to  fall  from  him  with  his  chain. 

We  talked  of  the  mysterious  charm  possessed  by 
the  name  of  Africa,  while  its  wonders  and  wealth 
were  only  divined  and  still  unproved.  We  talked 
of  Henry  the  Navigator ;  of  the  great  designs  so 
long  brooded  in  his  brain  ;  of  the  sudden  moment 
of  resolution,  followed  up  by  a  quarter  of  a  century 
of  patience  ;  of  the  final  success  which  was  to  have 
such  results  to  the  world,  —  in  the  African  slave- 
trade,  which  he,  of  Christian  princes,  was  the  first 
to  practise,  —  in  the  discovery  of  America  by  Co- 
lumbus, to  whose  enterprises  those  of  Henry  imme- 
diately led. 

If  we  could  suppose  that  man  ever,  indeed,  antici- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  133 

pated  the  decrees  of  Providence,  or  obtained  by  im- 
portunity a  grant  of  the  yet  immature  fruits  of  des- 
tiny, it  might  seem  to  have  been  when  Henry  of 
Portugal  overcame  the  defences  of  the  shrouded 
world,  and  opened  new  theatres  to  the  insane  covet- 
ousness  of  Western  Europe.  We  cannot  suppose 
it.  Doubtless  mankind  needed  the  terrible  lesson  ; 
and,  happily,  though  the  number  of  the  victims  has 
been  immense,  that  of  the  criminals  has  been  more 
limited. 

The  history  of  early  Portuguese  adventure  — 
this  strange  history,  full  of  the  admirable  and  the 
terrible,  attractive  at  the  same  time  and  hateful  — 
owes  nothing  of  its  romance  or  its  horror  to  the 
fancy  of  the  poet  or  of  the  people.  It  does  not 
come  to  us  gathered  up  from  tradition,  to  be  cavilled 
at  and  perhaps  rejected,  —  nor  woven  into  ballad 
and  legend.  It  has  been  preserved  by  sober  and 
exact  chroniclers.  The  earliest  and  most  ample 
of  its  recorders,  called  to  his  task  by  the  King  of 
Portugal,  was  historiographer  of  the  kingdom  and 
keeper  of  its  archives.  Long  a  member  of  the 
household  of  Prince  Henry,  and  the  intimate  ac- 
quaintance of  his%  captains,  he  heard  the  story 
of  each  voyage  from  the  lips  of  those  who  con- 
ducted it. 

He  makes  us  present  at  Henry's  consultations 
before  the  fitting  out  of  an  expedition, —  at  his  inter- 


134  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

views  with  his  returning  adventurers.  He  gives 
us  the  report  of  the  obstacles  they  met  with,  and 
the  encouragements.  We  follow  the  long  disappoint- 
ment of  the  sandy  coast ;  gain  from  the  deck  of  the 
caravel  the  first  glimpse  of  the  green  land,  with  its 
soft  meadows,  quietly  feeding  cattle,  and  inviting 
shade.  We  receive  the  first  kindly  welcome  of 
the  wondering  inhabitants,  and  meet  their  later 
defiance. 

These  earliest  witnesses  to  the  character  of  the 
black  man  are  among  the  most  sincere.  They  were 
not  tempted  to  deny  to  him  the  qualities  they  found 
in  him.  They  had  no  doubt  of  the  validity  of  the 
principle,  that  the  stronger  and  wiser  are  called 
upon  to  make  property  of  the  faculties  and  posses- 
sions of  the  weaker  and  simpler ;  they  were  as  sin- 
cerely persuaded  that  the  privileges  of  superiority 
were  with  themselves.  They  believed  in  the  duty 
and  glory  of  extirpating  heathenism,  and  with  it  the 
heathen,  if  need  were.  They  acted  under  the  com- 
mand of  "  their  lord  Infant,"  to  whose  bounty  and 
favor  their  past  and  their  future  were  bound  by  every 
tie  of  gratitude  and  expectation.  They  had  no  occa- 
sion, then,  to  malign  their  victims  in  order  to  justify 
themselves.  They  did  not  call  in  question  the  pa- 
triotism of  the  people  whom  they  intended  to  dis- 
possess, nor  its  right  to  defend  a  country  well  worth 
defending.  This  people  was  odious  to  them  for  its 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  135 

supposed  worship  of  "  the  Demon,"  and  for  its  use 
of  weapons  of  defence  strange  to  the  invaders,  and 
therefore  unlawful.  But,  even  while  grieving  for 
the  losses  and  smarting  under  the  shame  of  an 
incredible  defeat,  they  admitted  and  admired  the 
courage  by  which  they  suffered.  If  they  seized  and 
carried  away  the  children  left  on  the  river-side  in 
barbarian  security,  with  as  little  remorse  as  any 
marauders  that  came  after  them,  they  made  them- 
selves no  illusions  in  regard  to  the  feelings  of  the 
father,  who,  discovering  his  loss,  rushed  down  to 
the  beach  in  a  vain  attempt  at  rescue,  "  without  any 
fear,  through  the  fury  of  his  paternal  love."  They 
made  no  scruple  of  employing  guile,  when  it  served 
better  than  force,  —  the  civilized  and  the  Christian 
are  thus  privileged  in  their  dealings  with  the  man 
of  Nature  and  the  Pagan,  —  but  their  report  does 
justice  to  the  loyalty  of  primitive  society.  Nor  does 
their  chronicler  feel  any  call  to  make  himself  their 
advocate.  Glorying  in  their  exploits,  he  is  not 
ashamed  of  their  motives.  He  does,  indeed,  bestow 
higher  praise  on  those  with  whom  desire  of  honor  is 
the  more  prevailing  incentive  ;  but  he  has  no  fear 
of  detaching  any  sympathies  by  avowing  that  their 
courage  was  fired  and  fortified  by  the  promise  and 
the  view  of  gain.  v; 

I  related  to  Harry  some  scenes  from  this  narra- 
tive.    He  asked  me  to  write  it  out,  and  hereafter 


136  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

to  continue  it,  by  gathering  from  other  early  wit- 
nesses what  indications  are  to  be  found  of  the  orig- 
inal qualities  of  the  black  races  ;  of  their  condition 
and  civilization,  and  of  the  character  of  their  insti- 
tutions, before  they  had  been  demoralized  and  disor- 
ganized by  foreign  violence  and  cunning.  I  had 
already  sketched  to  him  my  views  on  this  subject. 
His  historical  studies,  his  knowledge  of  the  laws 
and  customs  of  primitive  peoples,  enabled  him  to 
draw  at  once,  from  the  facts  I  stated,  the  inferences 
to  which  I  would  have  led  him,  and  to  see  titles  to 
respect  where  more  superficial  minds  might  have 
found  only  matter  for  a  condescending,  or  perhaps 
a  disdainful,  curiosity. 

Harry's  request  came  to  confirm  an  intention 
whose  execution  I  had  continually  put  off  to  a  more 
convenient  season.  I  gave  him  my  promise  gladly, 
and  determined  to  begin  while  he  was  still  with  me, 
that  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of  reading  over  at 
least  the  first  pages  with  him.  Dr.  Borrow  likes  to 
spend  two  hours  or  so  after  breakfast  in  arranging 
and  labelling  his  pressed  flowers  ;  Harry  is  pleased 
to  have  some  active  work  in  his  day.  It  was  agreed 
between  us  that  he  should  give  that  time  to  help- 
ing Karl  and  Fritz,  and  that  I  should  take  it  for 
writing.  I  resolved  within  myself,  though,  that  I 
would  not  wait  for  the  morning.  Dr.  Borrow  was 
not  in  talking  vein  that  evening.  We  broke  up 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  137 

early.  As  soon  as  I  found  myself  in  my  room,  I 
took  out  my  portfolio-  and  began.  It  happened  to 
me,  however,  —  as  it  has  often  happened  to  me,  — 
that  what  I  wrote  was  not  what  I  had  meant  to 
write. 


FRIDAY,  April  12,  1844. 

I  WAS  to  tell  the  story  of  the  Finding  of  Guinea. 
But  let  us  leave  the  land  of  mystery  and  promise 
still  lying  in  shadow,  until  we  have  first  informed 
ourselves  a  little  concerning  the  world  with  which 
the  Portuguese  explorers  are  to  bring  it  into  rela-' 
tion,  —  the  civilized  and  Christian  world,  which  is 
about  to  rush  into  the  opened  road,  proposing,  in 
exchange  for  dominion  and  gold,  to  share  with  its 
intended  tributaries  its  own  moral  and  spiritual 
wealth,  and  to  endow  them  with  the  fruits  of  its 
social  and  political  wisdom. 

We  must  be  content  to  receive  our  accounts  of 
Africa  from  Europeans :  let  us  try  to  look  at  Eu- 
rope with  the  eyes  of  an  African. 

Let  us  suppose  that  the  Moorish  traders,  whose 
golden  legends  drew  the  eyes  of  Europe  southward, 
have  excited  in  a  lalof  or  Fulah  prince  a  desire  to 
see  the  wonders  of  the  North.  Or  rather,  let  the 
traveller  be  a  Mandingo ;  for  that  people  is  as  re- 
markable for  good  judgment  as  for  truthfulness,  and 
our  observer  of  Christian  manners  must  be  one  who 
will  not  easily  commit  injustice.  We  will  give  him 
about  a  three-years'  tour,  —  more  time  than  most 
travellers  allow  themselves  for  forming  an  opinion 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  139 

»)f  a  quarter  of  the  globe.  It  is  the  year  1415 
schemes  of  African  expedition  are  germinating  in 
the  brains  of  the  Portuguese  Infants.  The  Man- 
dingo  has  heard  of  Portugal  from  the  Moors,  and 
of  the  young  prince  who  has  questioned  them  of 
Africa  with  so  keen  an  interest.  Portugal,  then, 
attracts  him  first.  We  may  take  it  for  granted 
that  the  representative  of  Africa  is  well  received. 
We  may  suppose  him  to  be  entertained  with  the 
superb  hospitality  that  Bemoy,  the  lalof  prince, 
actually  met  with  at  the  Portuguese  court  some- 
thing more  than  half  a  century  later.  All  its  mag- 
nificence is  displayed  for  his  admiration  ;  and  its 
most  delightful  entertainments,  such  as  bull-baiting, 
feats  of  dogs,  tricks  of  buffoons,  and  the  like,  are 
put  in  requisition  for  him  as  for  Bemoy. 

The  Mandingo  traveller  is,  of  course,  very  wel- 
come to  Prince  Henry,  as  a  living  evidence  of  the 
existence  of  the  hidden  world  he  has  dreamed  of. 
The  reports  he  receives  of  its  resources,  from  so 
competent  a  witness,  confirm  his  hopes  and  inflame 
his  zeal.  He  expresses  to  the  stranger  his  strong 
desire  to  see  these  interesting  regions  brought  into 
communication  with  Europe,  and  discloses  those 
projects  of  maritime  adventure  whose  execution 
afterwards  gained  him  the  surname  of  the  Navig*- 
tor.  The  manners  and  conversation  of  Henry  are 
very  acceptable  to  his  foreign  guest,  who  is  espe 


140  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

cially  won  by  his  disinterestedness :  for  this  prince, 
and  his  young  brother  Ferdinand,  not  less  ardent 
than  himself,  have  the  good  of  Africa  as  much  at 
heart  as  that  of  their  own  country.  They  wish,  so 
they  tell  him,  to  aid  its  advance  in  science  and  the 
arts  ;  above  all,  they  wish  to  carry  there  a  religion 
which  has  been  revealed  to  them,  and  which  cannot 
but  prove  an  inestimable  blessing. 

The  Mandingo  is  surprised,  and  at  first  a  h'ttle 
disturbed,  by  this  last  announcement ;  for  the  ac- 
count he  has  heard  of  the  religions  of  Europe  is 
not  such  as  to  make  him  desire  to  see  any  of  them 
transported  to  Africa.  But  he  learns  that  he  has 
been  grossly  misinformed :  it  is  not  true,  as  the 
Moors  have  reported,  that  the  Europeans  are  ig- 
norant of  a  Supreme  Being  and  worship  only  idols : 
they  do,  indeed,  pay  homage  to  the  images  of  tute- 
lary divinities,  whom  they  call  saints  ;  but  they  are 
perfectly  aware  that  these  are  subordinate  beings. 
The  Africans  themselves  might,  on  the  same  evi- 
dence, be  accused,  by  a  superficial  traveller,  of  a 
like  deplorable  ignorance.  Neither  is  it  true  that 
many  of  the  states  of  Europe  worship  an  Evil  De- 
mon who  delights  in  carnage  and  is  propitiated  by 
massacre.  On  the  contrary,  the  Christian  relig- 
ion, which  prevails  in  the  greater  part  of  Europe, 
teaches  especially  love  to  God  and  love  to  man ;  it 
is  opposed  to  every  form  of  violence,  forbidding 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  141 

even  retaliation,  and  requiring  its  followers  to  love 
not  only  friends  and  strangers,  but  even  enemies. 
This  account  he  receives  from  a  good  priest,  who  is 
appointed  to  give  him  instruction.  He  is  greatly 
moved  by  the  exposition  of  this  sublime  doctrine. 
Far  from  dreading,  he  now  ardently  desires  to  see 
the  influences  of  the  religion  of  Christendom  ex- 
tended to  Africa.  He  has  arrived  at  a  favorable 
time  for  studying  its  precepts ;  for  Portugal  is  at 
peace  with  itself  and  its  neighbors :  an  unusual  state 
of  things,  however,  and  not  likely  to  last,  as  the 
stranger  cannot  but  soon  perceive,  —  for  prepara- 
tions unmistakably  warlike  are  going  on  about  him. 
He  observes  that  the  people  are  agitated  by  various 
apprehensions ;  he  hears  them  murmur  at  their  in- 
creased burdens,  and  at  the  prospect  of  having  their 
sons  taken  from  them  to  die  in  a  foreign  land.  All 
this  is  very  puzzling  to  our  traveller.  How  recon- 
cile it  with  the  religion  he  was  on  the  point  of  em- 
bracing ?  At  the  court  he  sees  elation  and  mystery 
on  the  faces  of  the  younger  men ;  in  those  of  the 
elder,  grave  concern.  The  people,  he  finds,  are  as 
ignorant  as  himself  of  the  object  of  the  military 
preparations :  some  saying  that  a  new  war  with 
Castile  is  impending ;  others,  that  the  king  is  about 
to  aid  the  Father  at  Rome  against  the  Father  at 
Avignon.  He  is  more  and  more  perplexed ;  but, 
mindful  of  the  reserve  and  delicacy  becoming  a 


142  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

stranger,  he  is  sparing  of  questions,  and  waits  for 
time  and  a  wider  experience  to  enlighten  him. 

In  the  mean  time,  he  turns  his  attention  to  what 
seems  to  concern  himself  more  nearly.  He  believes 
that  Henry,  whom  he  perceives  to  be  as  resolute  as 
adventurous,  wiU  one  day  carry  out  his  schemes  of 
maritime  enterprise,  and  that  he  will  thus  exercise 
an  influence  on  the  destinies  of  Africa.  Will  this 
influence  be  exerted  for  good  or  evil  ?  He  sets 
himself  to  study  the  character  of  the  young  prince 
more  carefully,  makes  diligent  inquiry  concerning 
his  deportment  in  childhood,  and  tries  to  collect 
information  in  regard  to  his  lineage,  —  for  this  is  a 
point  much  considered  among  the  Mandingos.  He 
is  so  fortunate  as  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  an 
ancient  nobleman,  versed  in  the  history  and  tradi- 
tions of  the  country,  as  well  as  in  those  of  the  royal 
court,  and  fond  of  telling  what  he  knows,  when  he 
has  a  safe  opportunity,  —  for  he  is  a  man  of  expe- 
rience, and  does  not  make  either  the  past  or  the 
future  a  topic  of  conversation  with  his  brother- 
courtiers.  To  him  the  African  addresses  his  ques- 
tions, and  not  in  vain.  The  old  man  knew  the 
present  king  when  he  was  only  Grand  Master  of 
the  Order  of  Avis,  and  the  Infant  Henry  has  grown 
up  under  his  very  eyes.  All  that  the  traveller 
learns  in  regard  to  Henry  himself  is  satisfactory; 
and  he  finds  that  King  John,  his  father,  is  regarded 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  143 

as  a  just  and  wise  sovereign.  But,  on  nearer  in- 
quiry, he  discovers  that  this  great  king  is,  in  fact, 
a  usurper;  for,  in  Portugal,  the  successor  to  the 
crown  must  be  the  son  of  his  father's  principal 
wife,  and  King  John  had  not  this  advantage.  He 
learns,  with  yet  more  regret,  that  this  sovereign  is 
of  a  family  in  which  filial  impiety  is  hereditary. 
The  first  of  the  dynasty,  King  Alphonso,  made  war 
against  his  own  mother,  and  imprisoned  her  in  a 
fortress,  where  she  died,  having  first,  as  the  Man- 
dingo  heard  with  horror,  bestowed  her  malediction 
on  her  son  and  his  line.  She  foretold  that  he  should 
be  great,  but  not  happy ;  that  his  posterity  should 
live  in  domestic  strife  and  unnatural  hatred  ;  that 
success  should  only  bring  them  sorrow,  and  even 
their  just  enterprises  should  turn  to  evil. 

The  African  asks  anxiously  whether  the  religion 
of  the  Christians  had  already  been  revealed  in  the 
time  of  Alphonso.  His  venerable  friend  replies 
that  it  had,  and  that  Alphonso,  by  his  great  piety 
displayed  in  the  building  of  monasteries  and  in  the 
slaughter  of  Moors,  —  for  he  did  not  spare  even  the 
tende*r  infants,  —  averted  from  himself  some  of  the 
effects  of  the  curse.  But  though  he  obtained  the 
crown  of  Portugal  and  was  permitted  to  triumph 
over  the  infidels,  yet  it  was  remarked  that  his  life 
was  disturbed  and  unhappy,  and  that  he  met  with 
strange  disasters  in  the  midst  of  his  successes.  The 


144 


FIFTEEN  DAYS. 


curse  seemed  to  deepen  with  time.  His  grandson, 
the  second  Alphonso,  set  aside  his  father's  will,  and 
seized  on  the  inheritance  of  his  sisters  ;  a  third 
Alphonso,  son  to  this  second  one,  deprived  his  elder 
brother  of  his  throne ;  the  fourth  Alphonso  rebelled 
against  his  father,  and  was  rebelled  against,  in  his 
turn,  by  his  son  Peter,  whose  wife  he  had  mur- 
dered, and  who,  in  revenge,  ravaged  the  country 
that  was  to  be  his  own  inheritance.  When  he 
came  to  the  throne,  Peter  caused  the  men  who  had 
been  the  instruments  of  his  father's  crime  to  be  put 
to  death  by  horrible  and  lingering  tortures,  which 
he  himself  superintended.  This  Peter,  surnamed 
the  Severe,  was  father  to  the  reigning  king,  entitled 
John  the  Great. 

The  Mandingo,  hearing  this  history  of  the  royal 
house  of  Portugal,  is  made  to  feel  that  he  is  indeed 
in  a  country  of  barbarians :  a  fact  which  the  pomp 
of  their  court,  and  the  account  he  has  heard  of 
their  religion,  had  almost  made  him  forget.  The  old 
courtier  becomes  more  and  more  communicative, 
as  he  sees  the  surprise  and  interest  his  narrative 
excites,  and  ventures  at  last,  in  strict  confidence, 
to  reveal  that  King  John  himself,  before  attaining 
to  the  crown,  gave  evidence  of  the  qualities  that 
marked  his  house.  He  assassinated  with  his  own 
hand  a  man  whom  he  considered  his  enemy,  after 
inviting  him  to  an  amicable  conference ;  he  spread 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  115 

devastation  and  horror  through  the  kingdom  on  his 
way  to  the  throne,  which,  when  he  seized  it,  had 
several  other  claimants.  One  of  these  was,  like 
himself,  a  son  of  Peter  the  Severe,  and  had  the  su- 
periority of  a  legal  birth  ;  but  he,  having  murdered 
his  wife,  went  on  foreign  travel,  and  happening, 
when  the  throne  of  Portugal  was  left  vacant,  to  be 
in  the  dominions  of  the  husband  of  his  niece, — 
another  of  the  claimants,  —  was  seized  and  thrown 
into  prison.  In  this  state  of  the  family-affairs,  John, 
the  Grand  Master  of  Avis,  saw  a  chance  for  himself. 
He  consented  to  act,  until  the  true  heir  should  be 
decided  on,  as  Protector  of  the  kingdom,  and  in 
this  capacity  opened  the  prisons,  offering  pardon  to 
all  who  would  enter  his  service.  He  thus  formed 
a  devoted  little  army,  which  he  provided  for  by 
giving  it  license  to  plunder  the  enemies  of  order, 
among  whom,  it  seemed,  were  dignitaries  of  Church 
and  State,  and  holy  recluse  women :  at  least,  their 
estates  were  ravaged,  themselves  murdered,  and 
their  dea,d  bodies  dragged  through  the  streets  in 
terror  to  others.  There  was  no  lack  of  recruits  ; 
the  reformed  convicts  found  the  path  of  duty  as 
congenial  as  that  of  crime,  and  all  the  ruined  spend- 
thrifts and  vagabonds  of  the  country  were  content 
to  link  their  fortunes  to  those  of  the  Protector. 
No  corner  of  the  kingdom  was  left  unschooled  by 

summary  executions.     In  fine,  the  adherents  of  the 
10 


146  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

Grand  Master  played  their  part  so  well,  that  the 
people,  tired  of  the  interregnum,  begged  him  to 
make  an  end  of  it  and  set  the  crown  on  his  own 
head.  He  complied,  and  the  country  had  the  relief 
of  being  ravaged  by  the  armies  of  his  Castilian 
competitor  and  of  supporting  his  own  forces  in  a 
more  regular  manner. 

But  all  this  is  now  over ;  the  kingdom  has  en- 
joyed an  interval  of  peace,  and  begins  to  look  with 
pride  on  the  prince  who  won  it  so  adroitly  and 
governs  it  so  firmly.  The  curse  which  hung  over 
the  royal  line  seems  to  have  been  baffled,  or,  at 
least,  suspended,  by  his  irregular  accession.  He 
has  held  his  usurped  sceptre  with  a  fortunate  as 
well  as  a  vigorous  hand.  His  five  sons  are  dutiful, 
united,  and  of  princely  endowments. 

The  Man  dingo  then  inquires  about  the  descent 
of  Henry  on  the  maternal  side,  and  learns  that  his 
mother  is  a  sister  of  the  late  king  of  England,  a 
great  and  wise  sovereign,  whose  son  Henry,  the  fifth 
of  the  name,  now  reigns  in  his  stead.  He  must  see 
the  island-kingdom  governed  by  Prince  Henry's 
cousin  and  namesake.  But  he  postpones  this  visit, 
—  for  he  hears  that  in  a  certain  city  of  the  main- 
land the  most  illustrious  persons  of  Europe  are 
assembled  to  hold  a  solemn  council,  whose  decrees 
are  to  have  force  in  all  Christian  states.  Even  the 
Supreme  Pontiff  himself  is  to  be  there,  the  head 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  147 

of  the  Christian  world,  superior  to  all  potentates. 
The  African  Avill  not  lose  such  an  opportunity  of 
studying  the  manners  and  institutions  of  Europe. 
He  hastens  to  Constance,  where  the  concourse  and 
the  magnificence  surpass  his  expectations.  He  in- 
quires earnestly  if  he  may  be  permitted  to  see  the 
Great  Pontiff,  and  learns,  to  his  surprise,  that  three 
sacred  personages  claim  this  title,  to  the  great  con- 
fusion and  misery  of  Christendom,  which  has  al- 
ready shed  torrents  of  blood  in  these  holy  quarrels 
and  sees  new  wars  in  preparation.  Nor  is  this  the 
worst  that  is  to  be  dreaded.  The  power  of  the 
rightful  Pontiff  extends  into  the  future  life  ;  and  as 
each  of  the  claimants  threatens  the  followers  of  his 
rivals  with  terrible  and  unending  punishment  in  the 
next  worldj  the  uncertainty  is  truly  fearful.  One 
of  the  pretenders  is  compelled  by  the  council  to  re- 
nounce his  claims,  and  is  instantly  thrown  into  pris- 
on, that  he  may  have  no  opportunity  of  resuming 
them.  A  second  withdraws  his  pretensions  by 
deputy ;  and  it  is  understood  that  the  council  in- 
tends to  require  a  similar  resignation  of  the  third, 
that  the  anxiety  of  the  world  may  be  put  to  rest  by 
the  election  of  a  fourth,  whose  rights  and  powers 
shall  be  unquestionable.  There  seems,  however,  no 
prospect  of  a  speedy  solution  of  these  difficulties ; 
and  our  traveller,  having  seen  all  the  great  person- 
ages of  the  assembly,  with  their  equipages  and  at- 


148  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

tendants,  begins  to  weary  of  the  noise  and  bustle. 
But  he  hears  that  a  ceremony  of  a  very  particular 
kind  is  about  to  take  place,  and  stays  to  witness  it ; 
for  he  will  neglect  no  opportunity  of  improvement. 
He  is  present,  therefore,  at  the  burning  of  John 
Huss,  which  he  understands  to  be  a  great  pro- 
pitiatory sacrifice.  When  he  hears,  the  following 
year,  that  a  holocaust  of  the  same  kind  has  again 
been  offered  in  the  same  place,  he,  of  course,  feels 
justified  in  recording  it  as  an  annual  celebration. 
He  notes  as  a  remarkable  circumstance,  that  the 
victim,  on  both  occasions,  is  taken  from  the  same 
nation ;  but  he  cannot  learn  that  any  law  prescribes 
this  selection,  or  that  the  efficacy  of  the  sacrifice 
would  be  affected  by  a  different  choice.  Another 
circumstance  which  seems  to  him  noteworthy  is, 
that,  whereas,  under  their  old  religions,  the  people 
of  these  countries  offered  up,  in  preference,  male- 
factors reserved  for  the  purpose,  or  captives  taken 
in  war,  the  Europeans  of  this  newer  faith,  on  the 
contrary,  select  men  without  spot  or  blemish,  and 
possessed  of  all  the  gifts  and  acquirements  held  in 
highest  honor  among  them.  He  hears  vaunted,  on 
all  sides,  the  virtue  and  learning  of  Huss,  and,  above 
all,  his  extraordinary  eloquence,  —  for  this  gift  is 
held  in  as  much  esteem  in  Europe  as  in  Africa. 
He  hears  the  same  encomiums  pronounced  on  the 
second  victim,  Jerome  of  Prague,  and  learns,  at 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  149 

the  same  time,  that  the  possession  of  these  powers 
renders  his  doom  the  more  necessary.  He  can 
but  infer  that  the  great,  though  mistaken,  piety  of 
the  Christians  makes  them  conceive  that  only  what 
they  have  of  best  is  worthy  to  be  devoted  to  so 
sacred  a  purpose.  But  these  reflections  were  made 
a  year  later.  We  must  go  back  to  the  summer 
of  1415. 


SATURDAY,  April  13,  1844. 

IT  is  in  the  month  of  August  that  our  African 
traveller  arrives  in  England.  The  king  is  just  set- 
ting off  on  a  hostile  expedition  against  a  country 
whose  inhabitants,  though  Christian,  like  the  Eng- 
lish, are  held  by  them  in  detestation  and  contempt. 
Just  before  going,  the  king  is  obliged  to  cut  off  the 
head  of  one  of  his  cousins.  The  cause  of  this  se- 
verity is  thus  explained  :  —  The  late  king,  cousin  to 
his  own  predecessor,  dethroned  and  killed  him  ;  and 
it  being  a  rule  in  England  that  what  has  been  done 
once  is  to  be  done  again,  the  present  king  lives  in 
great  fear  of  cousins.  He  finds  the  people  consid- 
erate of  these  royal  exigencies.  He  hears  praises 
bestowed  on  the  clemency  of  the  young  Henry, 
who  remits,  —  so  it  is  reported,  —  in  the  case  of  his 
kinsman,  a  grievous  part  of  the  punishment  which 
the  law  awards  to  treason,  only  suffering  the  sen- 
tence to  be  executed  in  full  on  a  man  of  inferior 
rank  condemned  with  him  as  his  accomplice. 

Notwithstanding  the  disturbed  state  of  the  times, 

the  stranger  is  well  received,  and  is  questioned  with 

avidity.     He  is  gratified  to  find  that  his  country  is 

.  a  subject  of  interest  to  the  English  as  well  as  to  the 

Portuguese.     They  seem,  indeed,  to  be  fully  aware 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  151 

that  Africa  is  the  most  favored  portion  of  the  globe. 
They  are  never  tired  of  asking  about  its  perpetual 
summer,  its  marvellous  fertility,  its  inexhaustible 
mines.  Even  the  common  soldiers  in  Henry's  army 
"speak  of  Africa  and  golden  joys."  He  finds  that 
some  of  the  learned  maintain  that  continent  to  have 
been  the  first  home  of  man,  and  believe  that  the 
terrestrial  Paradise  lies  somewhere  hidden  among 
its  mountains.  When  he  becomes  a  little  more 
familiar  with  his  hosts,  however,  he  finds  that  they 
entertain  some  notions  not  altogether  so  flattering. 
They  are  curious  about  a  certain  people  of  Africa 
who  live  in  the  caves  of  the  earth,  whose  meat  is 
the  flesh  of  serpents,  and  who  have  no  proper  hu- 
man speech,  but  only  a  grinning  and  chattering ; 
they  ask  him  whether  his  travels  in  his  own  coun- 
try have  extended  as  far  as  the  land  of  the  Blem- 
myes,  a  people  without  heads,  who  have  their  eyes 
and  mouth  set  in  their  breasts.  He  answers,  a  little 
stiffly,  that  he  has  no  knowledge  of  any  such  people. 
When  they  go  on  to  inquire  whether  he  ever  ven- 
tured into  the  region  inhabited  by  the  Anthropo- 
phagi, explaining-  at  the  same  time  what  peculiarities 
are  intimated  by  that  name,  his  indignation  almost 
gets  the  better  of  him,  and  he  denies,  with  some 
vehemence,  that  such  wretches  hold  any  portion  of 
his  native  soil.  His  English  friends  assure  him  that 
it  is  nevertheless  very  certain  that  such  a  people 


152  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

live  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Mountains  of  the 
Moon.  When  he  finds  that  he  cannot  otherwise 
persuade  them  out  of  this  injurious  opinion,  he  ven- 
tures, though  with  as  much  delicacy  as  possible,  to 
tell  them,  that,  while  on  the  mainland  of  Europe, 
he  heard  stories  equally  wonderful  and  equally  ab- 
surd of  their  own  island.  In  especial,  he  heard  a 
Frenchman  assert  that  the  eating  of  human  flesh 
was  practised  in  some  part  of  the  dominions  of  the 
English  king.  He  assures  his  English  friends  that 
he  refused  to  credit  this  story,  as  well  as  some  other 
particulars  in  regard  to  their  island,  which  seemed 
to  him  too  monstrous  for  belief  though  they  were 
given  to  him  on  the  authority  of  a  Greek  traveller 
of  high  reputation,  who  had  not  long  before  visited 
England  in  company  with  the  Emperor  of  the  East, 
and  who  had  enjoyed  extraordinary  opportunities 
for  studying  the  manners  of  the  most  polite  society 
of  the  kingdom.  The  Man  dingo  is  here  inter- 
rupted by  his  English  hosts,  who  make  haste  to 
assure  him  that  the  Greeks  are  everywhere  known 
to  be  great  liars ;  that  the  same  may  be  said  of 
Frenchmen  ;  and  that,  indeed,  there  is  no  nation 
of  Europe,  except  their  own,  whose  word  is  at  all 
to  be  relied  upon.  The  Mandingo  refrains  from 
passing  so  severe  a  judgment  on  the  travellers  who 
brought  back  such  rash  reports  of  his  own  country, 
but  he  permits  himself  to  suppose  that  they  did  not 


FIFTEEN   DAYS.         .  153 

themselves  visit  the  regions  whose  manners  they 
described,  but  received  with  too  little  examination 
stories  prevalent  in  other,  perhaps  hostile,  coun- 
tries ;  for  he  is  obliged  to  confess,  with  regret,  that 
Africa  is  not,  any  more  than  Europe,  always  at 
peace  within  itself.  For  himself,  he  protests,  that, 
even  if  his  natural  caution  did  not  prevent  him 
from  accepting  too  readily  the  statements  of  the 
enemies  of  England,  he  should  have  been  guarded 
from  this  error  by  the  favorable  accounts  he  had 
heard  from  Henry  of  Portugal,  by  whom  he  had 
been  warned  against  believing  the  stories  current 
among  the  common  Portuguese,  who  held  their 
English  allies  in  ungrateful  abhorrence,  and  re- 
garded their  visits  in  the  same  light  as  those  of  the 
plague  or  of  famine.  His  English  friends  approve 
the  African's  candor ;  but  he  can  perceive,  that,  so 
far  as  his  own  country  is  concerned,  they  remain  of 
their  first  opinion.  They  politely  turn  the'  con- 
versation, however,  from  the  men  of  Africa  to  its 
animals,  —  asking,  in  particular,  about  that  strange 
creature,  shaped  like  a  pig,  but  having  a  horse's 
mane,  whose  shadow,  falling  on  a  dog,  takes  from 
him  the  power  of  barking,  and  which,  lurking  near 
a  sheepfold  until  it  learns  the  shepherd's  name,  calls 
him  by  it,  and,  when  he  comes,  devours  him.  The 
African  does  not  deny  that  an  animal  possessed  of 
these  endowments  may  somewhere  exist,  but  he  is 


154 


FIFTEEN  DAYS. 


not  acquainted  with  it ;  neither  has  he  met  with 
the  wonderful  stone,  said  to  be  found  in  the  same 
creature's  eye,  which,  being  placed  under  a  man's 
tongue,  causes  him  to  foretell  future  events.  This 
ignorance  of  the  natural  history  of  his  country  does 
not  raise  his  reputation  with  the  English. 

They  give  him,  on  their  part,  every  opportunity 
of  forming  a  correct  judgment  of  their  own  coun- 
try,—  not  concealing  or  extenuating  things  liable 
to  be  found  fault  with  by  a  stranger.  Indeed,  he 
cannot  enough  admire  the  contented  and  cheerful 
character  of  this  people,  who  find  advantages  where 
others  would  have  seen  deficie%Cies  or  evils,  and 
account  by  latent  virtues  for  disagreeable  appear- 
ances on  the  surface.  They  congratulate  them- 
selves that  their  sun  never  oppresses  them  with  its 
rays,  —  that  their  soil  has  not  that  superabundant 
fertility  which  is  only  a  temptation  to  laziness.  They 
tell  him,  with  pride,  that  it  is  necessary,  in  travel- 
ling in  their  countiy,  to  go  in  strong  parties  and 
well  armed :  for  such  is  the  high  spirit  and  great 
heart  of  their  people,  that  they  cannot  bear  to  see 
another  have  more  than  themselves  ;  and  such  is 
their  courage,  that  what  they  desire  they  seize,  un- 
less the  odds  are  plainly  too  great  against  them. 
One  special  subject  of  gratulation  among  the  Eng- 
lish he  finds  to  be  the  possession  of  a  king  whose 
passion  is  military  glory ;  inasmuch  as  the  foreign 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  155 

wars  in  which  he  engages  the  country  have  the 
double  advantage  of  keeping  up  a  warlike  spirit 
in  the  nation,  and  of  clearing  off  the  idle  hands, 
which  might  become  too  formidable,  if  their  natural 
increase  were  permitted.  The  Mandingo,  seeing 
so  much  land  in  the  island  left  to  itself,  cannot  help 
thinking  that  the  hands  might  find  employment  at 
home.  But  he  suppresses  this  reflection,  and,  turn- 
ing  the  conversation  upon  agriculture,  inquires  how 
so  energetic  a  people  as  the  English  can  be  con- 
tented with  so  scanty  a  return  from  their  land ; 
for  he  has  remarked  that  the  meagreness  of  their 
crops  is  not  wholl;f  due  to  the  poverty  of  the  soil, 
but  likewise,  and  in  great  measure,  to  very  imper- 
fect tillage.  Many  reasons  are  given  for  this  neg- 
lect of  their  land,  all  more  or  less  creditable  to  the 
English  people,  but  not  very  satisfactory  to  the  mind 
of  the  stranger.  At  last,  however,  one  is  brought 
forward  which  he  at  once  accepts  as  sufficient : 
namely,  the  insecurity  of  possession.  It  seems  that 
property  in  England  often  changes  owners  in  the 
most  unexpected  manner ;  so  that  a  common  man, 
who  has  hired  land  for  cultivation  of  its  noble  pro- 
prietor, is  liable  to  be  suddenly  ejected,  and  to  lose 
all  the  fruits  of  his  industry,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
risk  he  runs  of  laying  down  his  life  with  his  lease. 
For  it  appears  that  the  nobles  of  the  country  are 
equally  remarkable  for  courage  with  the  other  idle 


156  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

persons,  and  display. it. in  the  same  manner.  If  they 
think  themselves  strong  enough  to  add  their  neigh- 
bor's estate  to  their  own,  they  will  —  so  one  of 
the  Mandingo's  English  friends  tells  him  —  "  make 
forcible  entry  and  put  out  the  possessor  of  the  same, 
and  also  take  his  goods  and  chattels,  so  that  he  is 
utterly  disinherited  and  undone." 

The  African  dismisses  his  surprise  on  the  sub- 
ject of  agriculture,  and  gives  his  attention  to  the 
cities,  expecting  to  see  the  national  industry  turned 
to  arts  which  might  offer  a  more  certain  reward. 
He  finds  that  the  most  skilful  artisans  are  foreign- 

O 

ers.  It  occurs  to  him,  seeing  the  great  demand 
for  weapons  of  all  sorts  among  the  English,  and 
their  love  of  golden  ornaments,  that  some  of  the 
skilful  cutlers  and  ingenious  goldsmiths  of  his  own 
country  might  find  encouragement.  But  he  gives 
up  this  hope,  when  he  sees  the  hatred  borne  to  the 
foreign  artisans  by  the  natives,  who  need  their  skill, 
but  grudge  them  the  profit  they  draw  from  it.  It 
is  not  an  unheard-of  thing  for  a  foreign  artisan  or 
merchant,  who  has  begun  to  be  a  little  prosperous, 
to  have  his  house  pulled  down  about  his  ears.  And 
well  for  him,  if  he  escape  with  this  !  Besides,  the 
jealousy  of  the  people  obliges  the  kings  to  be  al- 
ways making  regulations  for  the  injury  of  these 
foreigners  ;  thus  the  laws  are  perpetually  changing, 
so  that  by  the  time  the  unlucky  men  have  adapted 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  157 

themselves  to  one  set  they  find  they  are  living  un- 
der another.  The  restrictions  and  heavy  exactions 
of  the  law  are  not  enough  :  foreign  artisans  and 
traders  are  further  subjected  to  the  capricious  ex- 
tortions of  the  collectors.  The  Mandingo  con- 
gratulates himself  on  the  more  liberal  policy  of 
his  own  country,  and  on  the  great  respect  paid 
there  to  the  professors  of  useful  arts,  whose  per- 
sons are  inviolable  even  in  time  of  war ;  above  all, 
he  reflects  with  satisfaction  on  the  sacredness  of 
the  common  law  there,  which,  having  been  handed 
down  through  centuries,  is  known  to  all  and  ad- 
mits of  no  dispute,  —  whereas,  under  this  system  of 
written  enactments,  continually  varied,  a  man  may 
spend  his  life  in  learning  the  rules  he  is  to  live  by, 
and  after  all,  perhaps,  become  a  law-breaker  before 
he  knows  it. 

Notwithstanding  some  drawbacks,  the  African 
enjoys  his  visit  to  the  English  highly,  and  finds 
much  to  praise  and  admire  among  them.  He  does 
not  neglect  to  note  that  they  have  the  choicest  wool 
in  the  world.  This  possession,  he  finds,  has  en- 
dowed them  with  a  branch  of  manufacture  which 
may  be  regarded  as  national.  Their  woollen  cloths 
are  not  very  fine,  it  is  true,  but  they  are  much 
prized,  both  in  England  and  in  foreign  countries, 
for  their  strength  and  durability. 

He  is  much  impressed   by  the  religious  archi- 


158 


FIFTEEN  DAYS. 


tecture  of  the  Christians.  Before  their  sacred  edi- 
fices, he  feels  his  soul  lifted  into  a  sublime  tranquil- 
lity, as  in  the  presence  of  the  grandest  objects  in 
Nature.  He  is  much  moved  at  recognizing  in  the 
rich  stone  carving  a  resemblance  to  the  ornamental 

O 

cane-work  of  African  houses.  This  reminds  him 
of  what  he  once  heard  said  by  a  learned  Arab,  — 
that  Africa  was  the  first  home  of  the  arts,  as  of 
man  himself,  and  that  they  had  gone  forth  from 
their  too  indulgent  mother  to  be  perfected  in  sterner 
regions,  where  invention  is  quickened  by  neces- 
sity. He  cannot  but  bow  before  the  wisdom  of  the 
superintending  Providence  which  has  caused  the 
rigors  of  climate  and  the  poverty  of  soil  so  to  act 
on  the  mind  of  man,  that,  where  Nature  is  less 
great  and  exuberant,  his  own  works  are  the  more 
transcendent,  so  that  his  spiritual  part  may  never 
lack  the  food  it  draws  from  the  view  of  sublime  and 
genial  objects. 

He  admires  less  the  arrangements  of  private 
dwellings.  He  finds  that  in  England,  as  in  Africa, 
the  habitations  of  families  in  easy  circumstances 
consist  of  several  houses ;  but,  instead  of  being  all 
placed  on  the  ground  at  a  little  distance  from  each 
other,  the  square  in  which  they  stand  surrounded 
by  a  pretty  palisade,  as  is  the  case  in  Africa,  they 
are  here  piled  one  upon  another,  sometimes  to  a 
considerable  height,  so  that  it  is  necessary  to  mount 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  159 

by  long  flights  of  uneasy  steps ;  and  then,  in  the 
cities,  houses  occupied  by  different  families  "often 
adjoin  each  other,  having  a  partition-wall  in  com- 
mon, and  their  doors  opening  on  a  common  way,  so 
that  it  would  seem  the  people  living  in  them  can 
have  no  proper  notion  of  home  or  of  domestic  re- 
tirement. He  finds  that  the  houses  of  the.  common 
people  in  the  country  are  not  of  more  durable  ma- 
terial than  African  houses.  Those  of  the  great  are 
very  commonly  of  stone,  and,  unless  ruined  by  vio- 
lence, are  capable  of  serving  for  centuries.  The 
African  does  not  think  this  an  advantage,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  temples  ;  for  these  damp  stone  houses, 
so  long  used  as  human  abodes,  become  unwhole- 
some ;  and  what  is  even  worse,  when  evil  deeds 
have  been  committed  in  them,  —  and  this  is  too 
often  the  case  with  the  houses  of  the  powerful, 
—  the  contagion  of  guilt  hangs  round  the  walls, 
and  the  same  crime  is  repeated  in  after -genera- 
tions. 

The  African  learns,  while  in  England,  what  was 
the  real  aim  of  the  warlike  preparations  he  saw 
going  on  in  Portugal.  He  hears  of  the  taking  of 
Ceuta,  —  an  event  which  excites  almost  as  much 
interest  in  England  as  in  Portugal ;  for  the  English 
are  supposed  to  have  had  a  great  part  in  this  suc- 
cess. He  hears,  however,  the  chief  merit  ascribed 
to  a  beneficent  being  who  bears  the  title  of  "  The 


160  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

Lady  of  Mercy."  It  seems,  the  besiegers  landed  on 
a  day  especially  consecrated  to  her ;  and  to  her  kind 
interposition  is  referred  the  taking  of  the  city  and  ' 
the  terrible  slaughter  of  the  Moors  who  defended 
it.  The  African  asks  how  favors  of  this  kind  can 
be  made  consistent  with  the  character  ascribed  to 
this  divinity,  and  is  answered,  that  her  mercies  are 
for  those  who  reverence  her,  —  that  the  unbelieving 
Moors  have  no  claim  on  her  grace.  He  is  pained ; 
for  the  lovely  qualities  he  has  heard  attributed  to 
this  gracious  being  had  drawn  his  heart  to  her  as  to 
one  well  fitted  to  be  a  dispenser  of  the  bounties  of 
Heaven.  But  it  does  not  appear  that  she  is  con- 
sistent even  in  the  protection  of  Christians ;  for  he 
hears  it  mentioned  as  an  auspicious  augury,  that  the 
English  king  effected  his  landing  in  the  Christian 
kingdom  of  France  on  the  eve  of  her  chosen  day ; 
and  later,  when  the  Battle  of  Agincourt  fills  Eng- 
land with  rejoicing,  he  hears  the  circumstance  again 
referred  to,  and  the  Merciful  Lady  invoked  as  a 
benefactress. 

He  is  daily  more  and  more  perplexed  in  regard 
to  the  religion  of  the  Christians.  He  obtains  in- 
struction of  an  English  priest,  and  finds  he  has 
made  no  mistake  as  to  its  tenets  :  it  is  understood 
to  -teach  universal  love  and  ready  forgiveness  in 
England  as  in  Portugal.  Yet  he  observes  that 
nothing  is  considered  more  shameful  among  Chris- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  161 

tians  than  to  pardon  an  injury ;  even  the  smallest 
affront  is  to  be  atoned  by  blood  ;  and  so  far  from 
the  estimation  in  which  a  man  is  held  depending 
on  the  good  he  has  done,  he  is  the  greatest  man 
who  has  slain  the  greatest  number  of  his  fellow- 
creatures. 

As  he  stands  one  day  before  a  cathedral,  mar- 
velling how  people  so  selfish  and  narrow  in  their 
religious  views  could  imagine  this  grand  temple, 
which  seems,  indeed,  raised  to  the  Universal  Fa- 
ther, hi*  attention  is  drawn  to  a  man  of  noble  as- 
pect, who  is  observing  him  with  a  look  so  kind  and 
pitiful  that  he  is  emboldened  to  give  the  confidence 
which  it  seems  to  invite. 

"  I  cannot  understand  the  religion  of  the  Chris- 
tians ! " 

"  The  time  will  come  when  they  will  understand 
it  better  themselves.  They  are  now  like  little  chil- 
dren, who  do,  indeed,  reverence  the  words  of  their 
father,  but  have  not  yet  understanding  to  compre- 
hend and  follow  them." 

The  Mandingo  has  no  time  to  thank  his  new 
instructor.  A  party  of  ruffians,  who  have  been 
for  some  moments  watching  the  venerable  man, 
now  seize  upon  him,  put  irons  on  his  hands  and 
feet,  and  drag  him  away,  amid  the  shouts  and 
cries  of  the  people,  who  crowd  round,  some  insult- 
ing the  prisoner,  others  bemoaning  his  fate,  others 
11 


162  FIFTEEN  DATS.    • 

asking  his  blessing  as  he  passes.  The  wondering 
traveller  can  get  no  other  reply  to  his  questions 
than,  "A  Lollard!  a  Lollard!"  uttered  in  differ- 
ent tones  of  disgust  or  compassion. 

He  learns,  upon  inquiry,  that  the  Lollards  are 
people  who  hold  opinions  disagreeable  to  the  king 
and  to  the  great  generally.  For  they  pretend  to 
understand  the  doctrines  of  the  Christian  religion 

O 

after  a  manner  of  their  own  ;  and  it  is  thought  this 

9  O 

interpretation,  if  disseminated  among  the  common 
people,  would  cause  serious  inconvenience  to  their 
superiors.  In  order  to  prevent  the  spread  of  these 
dangerous  doctrines,  open  and  notorious  professors 
of  them,  are  shut  up  in  prison.  Yet,  notwithstand- 
ing the  severities  which  await  the  adherents  of  this 
sect,  such  is  the  hard-heartedness  of  its  leaders,  that, 
when  they  can  manage  to  elude  justice  for  a  time, 
they  use  unceasing  efforts  to  persuade  others  to  their 
ruin.  There  are  among  them  some  men  of  elo- 
quence, and  then:  success  in  making  converts  has 
been  so  great  that  the  prisons  are  filled  with  men 
of  the  better  condition,  who  look  for  no  other  re- 
lease than  death  ;  while,  in  the  dungeons  below 
them,  people  of  the  common  sort  are  heaped  upon 
each  other,  perishing  miserably  of  fevers  engen- 
dered by  damp  and  hunger. 

In  spite  of  this  unfavorable  account  of  the  Lol- 
lards, the  African  is  glad  when  he  hears  that  the 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  163 

only  one  of  them  he  knows  anything  about  has 
escaped  from  prison,  —  for  the  second  or  third  time, 
it  seems. 

The  words  of  the  fugitive  have  sunk  deep  into 
the  heart  of  the  Mandingo.  But  the  distant  hope, 
that  the  Christians  may  in  time  grow  up  to  their 
religion,  cannot  revive  the  delight  which,  when  he 
first  became  acquainted  with  its  doctrines,  he  felt  in 
the  thought  that  this  divine  revelation  wras  to  be  car- 
ried to  Africa.  What  teachers  are  those  who  them- 
selves know  not  what  they  teach !  His  heart  is 
heavy,  when  he  sees  how  the  Christians  triumph 
over  the  fall  of  Ceuta.  Their  foot  once  set  on 
African  soil,  their  imagination  embraces  the  whole 
continent.  He  sees  the  eyes  of  the  narrators  and 
the  listeners  alternately  gleam  and  darken  with 
cupidity  and  envy  over  the  story  of  the  successful 
assault,  and  of  the  immense  booty  won  by  the  vic- 
tors, who  "  seem  to  have  gathered  in  a  single  city 
the  spoil  of  the  universe."  He  is  not  reassured  by 
the  admiration  bestowed  on  the  craft  of  the  Portu- 
guese, who  contrived  to  keep  their  intended  prey 
lulled  in  a  false  security  until  they  were  ready  to 
fall  upon  it.  They  sent  out  two  galleys,  splendidly 
equipped  and  decorated,  to  convey  a  pretended  em- 
bassy to  another  place.  The  envoys,  according  to 
private  instructions,  stopped  on  the  way  at  Ceuta, 
as  if  for  rest  and  refreshment,  and,  while  receiving 


164  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

its  hospitality,  found  opportunity  to  examine  its  de- 
fences and  spy  out  its  weak  points.  The  King  of 
Portugal  himself,  arriving  near  the  devoted  place 
with  the  fleet  that  brought  its  ruin,  deigned  to  ac- 
cept civilities  and  kind  offices  from  the  Infidels,  in 
order  the  better  to  conceal  his  designs  until  the 
moment  came  for  disclosing  them  with  effect.  The 
Mandingo  recalls  with  less  pleasure  than  hereto- 
fore the  kind  words  of  the  Infant  Henry  and  his 
brother.  When  he  hears  that  the  terrible  first 
Alphonso  of  Portugal  has  made  himself  visible  in 
a  church  at  Coimbra,  urging  his  descendants  to 
follow  up  their  successes,  he  shudders  with  fore- 
boding. 

We  will  not  follow  our  explorer  through  all  his 
voyages  and  experiences.  They  are  numerous  and 
wide.  He  carries  his  investigations  even  to  the  far 
North,  where  Eric  of  Pomerania  wears  the  triple 
crown,  placed  on  his  head  by  the  great  Margaret. 
His  wife  is  Philippa  of  England,  niece  and  name- 
sake of  the  mother  of  Henry  of  Portugal.  It  is, 
in  part,  interest  in  the  family  of  that  prince,  his 
first  intimate  acquaintance  in  Europe,  which  leads 
the  African  on  this  distant  journey.  But  he  soon 
finds  that  neither  pleasure  nor  profit  is  to  be  had 
in  the  dominions  of  Eric,  an  untamed  savage,  who 
beats  his  wife  and  ruins  his  subjects.  The  great 
men  who  rule  under  him  are  as  bad  as  himself. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  165 

Some  of  them  have  been  noted  sea-robbers ;  even 
the  prelates  are  not  ashamed  to  increase  their 
revenues  by  the  proceeds  of  piracy.  The  travel- 
ler gives  but  a  glance  to  the  miseries  of  Sweden, 
where  the  people  are  perishing  under  Erie's  officials, 
who  extort  tribute  from  them  by  the  most  frightful 
tortures,  and  where  women,  yoked  together,  are 
drawing  loaded  carts,  like  oxen. 

He  returns  to  England,  where  he  finds  prepa- 
rations making  for  a  solemn  sacrifice.  He  hears, 
not  without  emotion,  that  the  victim  selected  for 
this  occasion  is  the  stately  man  who  once  stood 
with  him  in  front  of  the  great  cathedral.  He 
visits  the  place  chosen  for  the  celebration,  and 
sees  the  pile  of  wood  prepared  to  feed  the  fire, 
over  which  the  victim  is  to  be  suspended  by  an  iron 
chain.  He  cannot  bring  himself  to  witness  the  sac- 
rifice, but  he  afterwards  hears  that  it  was  performed 
with  great  pomp  in  the  presence  of  many  illustrious 
persons.  The  king  himself,  it  seems,  once  super- 
intended a  similar  ceremony  in  the  lifetime  of  his 
father,  by  whom  this  species  of  sacrifice  had  been 
reinstituted  after  a  very  long  disuse.  It  is  custom- 
ary to  choose  the  victim  from  among  the  Lollards, 
as  it  is  thought  that  the  chance  of  serving  on  these 
occasions  will  contribute  to  deter  people  from 
adopting,  or  at  least  from  proclaiming,  the  unsafe 
opinions  of  that  sect. 


166  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

The  African  traveller's  last  visit  is  to  France. 
He  made  an  earlier  attempt  to  see  that  country, 
but,  finding  it  ravaged  by  invasion  and  by  civil  war, 
deferred  his  design  to  a  quieter  time.  Such  a  time 
does  not'  arrive  ;  but  he  cannot  leave  one  of  the 
most  important,  countries  of  Europe  unseen.  On 
landing  in  France,  he  finds  the  condition  of  things 
even  worse  than  he  had  anticipated.  But  he  re- 
solves to  penetrate  to  Paris,  in  spite  of  the  dangers 
of  the  road.  He  passes  through  desolated  regions, 
where  only  the  smoke  rising  from  black  heaps 
gives  sign  of  former  villages,  and  where  the  re- 
maining trees,  serving  as  gibbets,  still  bear  the 
trophies  of  the  reciprocal  justice  which  the  nobles 
and  gentlemen  of  the  country  have  been  executing 
on  each  other. 

It  is  on  this  journey  through  France  that  the 
Mandingo  learns  to  be  truly  grateful  for  having 
been  born  in  a  civilized  country.  The  unfortunate 
land  in  which  he  now  finds  himself  has  at  its  head 
a  young  prince  who  has  robbed  his  own  mother 
and  sent  her  to  prison.  Such  impious  guilt  cannot, 
the  African  feels,  fail  to  draw  down  the  vengeance 
of  Heaven.  Accordingly,  when  he  reaches  the 
capital,  he  finds  the  inhabitants  engaged  in  an  in- 
discriminate slaughter  of  their  friends  and  neigh- 
bors. It  almost  seems  to  a  stranger  that  the  city  is 
built  on  red  clay,  so  soaked  are  the  principal  streets 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  167 

with  blood.  The  traveller  meets  no  one  sane 
enough  to  give  an  explanation  of  this  state  of 
things.  Nor  does  he  require  one.  It  is  plain  that 
this  people  is  afflicted  with  a  judicial  madness,  sent 
upon  it  for  the  crimes  of  its  chiefs.  He  finds  his 
way  to  a  street  where  the  work  Seems  completed. 
All  is  quiet  here,  except  where  some  wretch  still 
struggles  with  his  last  agony,  or  where  one  not  yet 
wounded  to  death  is  dragging  himself  stealthily 
along  the  ground  towards  some  covert  where  he 
may  perhaps  live  through  to  a  safer  time.  The 
stranger  stoops  compassionately  to  a  child  that  lies 
on  its  dead  father ;  but,  as  he  raises  it,  he  feels 
that  the  heaviness  is  not  that  of  sleep,  and  lays  it 
back  on  the  breast  where  it  belongs.  In  a  neigh- 
boring quarter  the  work  is  still  at  its  highest. 
Where  he  stands,  he  hears  the  yell  of  fury,  the 
sharp  cry  of  terror,  the  burst  of  discordant  laugh- 
ter, rise  above  the  clang  of  weapons  and  the  clamor 
of  threatening  and  remonstrance ;  while,  under  all, 
the  roar  of  a  great  city  in  movement  deepens  with 
curse  and  prayer  and  groan.  And  now  a  woman 
rushes  from  a  side -street,  looks  wildly  round  for 
refuge,  then  runs,  shrieking,  on,  until,  stumbling 
over  the  dead  bodies  in  her  way,  she  is  overtaken 
and  silenced  forever. 

He  has   made   his  way  out   of  France,  and  is 
planning  new  journeys,  when  he  receives,  through 


158  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

some  travelling  merchants,  a  peremptory  summons 
from  his  father,  who  has  heard  such  accounts  of  the 
barbarous  state  of  Europe  that  he  regrets  having 
given  him  leave  to  go  out  on  this  dangerous  explor- 
ing expedition. 

Our  Mandingo"  did  not  meet  the  tragic  fate  of 
Bemoy,  to  whom  the  friendship  of  the  whites  proved 
fatal.  He  returned  in  safety  to  his  country. 

The  house  of  the  renowned  traveller  became  a 
centre  of  attraction.  The  first  question  asked  by 
his  guests  was,  invariably,  whether,  in  his  long  resi- 
dence among  the  Christians,  he  had  learned  to  pre- 
fer their  manners  to  those  of  his  own  people.  He 
was  happy  to  be  able  to  assure  them  that  this  was 
not  the  case.  He  had  met  in  Europe,  he  said,  some 
admirable  men,  and  he  thought  the  people  there,  in 
general,  quite  as  intelligent  as  those  of  his  own 
country,  but  far  less  amiable ;  they  wei'e,  perhaps, 
even  more  energetic,  especially  the  Portuguese  and 
English ;  but  he  was  obliged  to  add,  that  their  ener- 
gies were  not  as  constantly  employed  in  the  service 
of  mankind  as  their  professions  gave  reason  to  ex- 
pect. What  he  had  found  very  displeasing  in  the 
manners  of  the  Europeans  was  their  disregard  of 
cleanliness.  Their  negligence  in  this  respect  was 
a  thing  inconceivable  to  an  African  who  had  not 

O 

lived  among  them. 

He  was  much  embarrassed,  when  called  upon  to 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  169 

speak  of  the  religion  of  the  Europeans  and  their 
mode  of  professing  it.  His  audience  was  indignant 
at  the  hypocrisy  of  the  Christians.  But  he  was 
of  opinion  that  their  enthusiasm  for  their  creed  and 
their  zeal  for  its  propagation  were  undoubtedly 
genuine.  Why,  then,  did  they  allow  it  no  influ- 
ence on  their  conduct  ?  He  could  only  conclude 
that  they  knew  it  to  be  too  good  for  them,  and 
that,  though  they  found  it,  for  this  reason,  of  no 
use  at  all  to  themselves,  they  were  perfectly  sin- 
cere in  thinking  it  an  excellent  religion  for  other 
people. 

The  result  of  his  observations  on  the  Christian 
nations  was,  that  their  genius  especially  displayed 
itself  in  the  art  of  war,  in  which  they  had  already 
attained  to  great  eminence,  and  yet  were  intent  on 
new  inventions.  Indeed,  he  gave  it  as  his  un- 
qualified opinion,  that  the  European  had  a  great 
natural  superiority  over  the  African  in  everything 
which  concems  the  science  of  destruction. 

The  Mandingo  had  news,  from  time  to  time, 
through  the  travelling  merchants,  of  what  was  go-< 
ing  on  in  the  North.  He  heard,  in  this  way,  of  the 
captivity  and  miserable  end  of  the  Infant  Ferdi- 
nand, of  the  accession  of  a  fifth  Alphonso,  and  of 
the  revival  of  the  bloody  dissensions  of  the  royal 
house  of  Portugal.  He  waited  long  for  tidings  of 
Henry's  expeditions,  although  the  year  of  his  own 


170  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

return  from  Europe  was  the  same  in  which  John 
Goi^alvez  Zarco  and  Tristam  Vaz  set  off  on  the 
search  for  Guinea.  But  the  looked-for  news  came 
at  last,  to  bring  with  it  a  revival  of  his  old  fore- 
boding. 

You  must  allow  that  I  have  been  tender  of  Eu- 
rope. I  might  have  introduced  our  traveller  to 
it  at  a  worse  moment.  Instead  of  going  to  Eng- 
land in  the  time  of  a  chivalrous,  popular  prince, 
like  Henry  the  Fifth,  he  might  have  seen  it  under 
Richard  the  Third ;  or  I  might  have  taken  him 
there  to  assist  at  the  decapitation  of  some  of  the 
eighth  Henry's  wives,  or  at  a  goodly  number  of  the 
meaner  executions,  which  went  on,  they  say,  at  the 
rate  of  one  to  every  five  hours  through  that  king's 
extended  reign.  Instead  of  making  him  report 
that  human  burnt-offerings,  though  not  unknown 
in  England,  were  infrequent,  and  that  only  a  single 
victim  was  immolated  on  each  occasion,  I  might 
have  let  him  collect  his  statistics  on  this  subject  in 
,  the  time  of  the  bloody  Mary.  I  am  not  sure  that 
he  could  have  seen  France  to  much  less  advantao-e 

o 

than  in  the  days  of  the  Bourgignon  and  Armagnac 
factions ;  but  perhaps  he  would  not  have  formed  a 
very  different  judgment,  if,  going  there  a  century 
and  a  half  later,  he  had  happened  on  the  Massacre 
of  Saint  Bartholomew. 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  171 

The  African  traveller  sometimes  a  little  misap- 
prehended what  he  saw,  no  doubt;  but  he  noted 
nothing  in  malice.  If  he  did  not  see  our  English 
ancestors  precisely  with  their  own  eyes  or  with 
ours,  at  least  he  did  not  fall  into  the  monstrous 
mistakes  of  the  Greek  historian  Chalcondyles,  of 
whose  statements  in  regard  to  English  manners 
Gibbon  says,  —  "  His  credulity  and  injustice  may 
teach  an  important  lesson  :  to  distrust  accounts  of 
foreign  and  remote  nations,  and  to  suspend  our 
belief  of  every  tale  that  deviates  from  the  laws  of 
Nature  and  the  character  of  man." 


SUNDAY  MORNING,  April  14,  1844. 

YESTERDAY  was  the  day  my  journal  should  have 
gone  ;  and  my  delay  has  not  the  usual  excuse,  for 
here  was  already  a  heavy  budget.  It  is  my  love 
of  completeness  which  has  detained  it.  Next  Satur- 
day I  can  send  you,  together  with  the  account  of 
Harry's  arrival  and  visit  here,  that  of  our  leave- 
taking  at  Omocqua.  You  will  thus  have  this  little 
episode  in  my  life  entire. 

The  solicitude  we  had  felt  beforehand  about  Dr. 
Borrow's  entertainment  was  thrown  away.  He 
has  his  particularities  certainly,  but  we  soon  learned 
to  accommodate  ourselves  to  them.  Harry,  with 
perfect  simplicity  and  directness,  all  along  as  on  the 
first  day,  kept  us  informed  of  the  Doctor's  tastes 
and  warned  us  of  his  antipathies,  so  that  we  had  no 
difficulty  in  providing  for  his  general  comfort.  As 
to  his  little  humors  and  asperities,  we  accepted  them, 
in  the  same  way  that  Harry  does,  as  belonging  to 
the  man,  and  never  thought  of  asking  ourselves 
whether  we  should  like  him  better  without  them. 
One  thing  I  will  say  for  the  Doctor :  if,  when  he 
feels  annoyance,  he  makes  no  secret  of  it,  on  the 
other  hand,  you  can  be  sure  that  he  is  pleased 
when  he  appears  to  be,  —  and  this  is  a  great  satis- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  173 

faction.  He  is  not  inconsiderate  of  the  weaknesses 
of  others,  either.  I  do  not  know  how  he  divined 
that  I  disliked  his  blue  glasses,  but  after  the  sec- 
ond day  they  disappeared.  He  said  our  pure 
air  enabled  him  to  do  without  them.  Then  the 
umbrella,  —  it  attended  us  on  the  Saturday's  walk. 
I  supposed  it  was  to  be  our  inevitable  companion. 
But  on  Sunday  it  came  only  as  far  as  the  door; 
here  the  Doctor  stopped,  held  it  up  before  him, 
considered,  doubted,  and  set  it  down  inside.  Harry 
carried  it  up-stairs  in  the  evening.  I  expected  to 
see  it  come  down  again  the  next  morning,  —  but  it 
had  no  part  in  our  pleasant  Monday  rambles.  I 
had  not  said  a  word  against  the  umbrella. 

The  engagement  I  made  with  Harry  that  Mon- 
day afternoon  had  Dr.  Borrow's  concurrence.  He 
even  expressed  a  willingness  to  assist  at  our  read- 
ings. The  order  of  our  day  was  this : — In  the  early 
morning  we  had  our  walk, —  Harry  and  I.  Coming 
back,  we  always  went  round  by  Keith's  Pine.  We 
were  sure  to  find  the  Doctor  seated  on  the  bench, 
which  had  been  left  there  since  the  last  Sunday, 
microscope  in  hand  and  flower -press  beside  him. 
Then  all  to  the  house,  where  we  arrived  with  an 
exactitude  which  caused  the  Doctor,  whose  first 
glance  on  entering  was  at  the  clock,  to  seat  him- 
self at  the  table  in  a  glow  of  self-approval  sufficient 
to  warm  all  present  into  a  little  innocent  elation. 


174  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

After  breakfast  we  separated,  —  Harry  walking  off 
to  take  my  place  with  Karl  and  Fritz,  the  Doctor 
going  to  his  flowers,  and  I  to  my  writing.  We  all 
met  again  at  an  appointed  time  and  place  for  an 
excursion  together.  We  carried  our  dinner  with 
us  ;  or,  if  we  were  not  going  very  far,  had  it  left  at 
some  pleasant  spot,  where  we  found  it  on  our  way 
home.  After  dinner  I  read,  and  then  we  had  an 
hour  or  so  of  discussion  and  criticism. 

I  have  given  you  the  readings  of  two  days.  I 
shall  try  to  copy  the  rest  for  you  in  the  course  of 
the  week.  Copying  is  work ;  I  cannot  do  any  this 
morning ;  and  then  I  have  still  other  things  remain- 
ing to  me  from  those  days  which  I  have  not  yet 
shared  with  you. 

On  Tuesday,  the  ninth,  the  first  day  of  the  new 
arrangement,  Harry  went  away  as  soon  as  breakfast 
was  over.  The  Doctor  rose,  as  if  going  to  his  room, 
hesitated,  and  sat  down  again.  I  saw  that  he  had 
something  to  say  to  me,  and  waited.  My  thoughts 
went  back  to  the  conversation  of  the  afternoon 
before.  Had  I  really  displeased  him  ?  He  spoke 
seriously,  but  very  kindly. 

"  Harry  has  no  need  of  incitement  in  the  direc- 
tion of" 

He  stopped,  as  if  for  a  word  which  should  be 
true  at  once  to  his  pride  and  his  disapprobation. 
He  did  not  find  it,  and  began  over  again :  — 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  175 

"It  is  the  office  of  friendship  to  restrain  even 
from  generous  error.  It  is  possible  to  err  on  the 
side  of  too  great  disinterestedness.  A  man  such 
as  Harry  will  be,  while  living  for  himself,  —  living 
nobly  and  wisely  as  he  must  live,  —  is  living  for 
others ;  he  has  no  need  to  become  a  crusader." 

"  Harry  will  be  what  he  was  meant  to  be ;  you 
would  not  have  him  force  himself  to  become  any- 
thing else  ?  " 

"  No,  I  would  not,"  the  Doctor  answered  con- 
fidently, yet  with  a  little  sadness  in  his  voice.  "  It 
almost  seems,"  he  added,  a  moment  after,  "  that  the 
qualities  which  fit  a  man  for  a  higher  sphere  are 
incompatible  with  his  success  in  this." 

"  Not,  perhaps,  with  what  Harry  would  call  suc- 
cess." 

"  I  am  ambitious  for  him ;  I  own  it.  And  so 
are  you,  though  you  do  not  own  it.  You  want  to 
see  him  recognized  for  what  he  is." 

Certainly  it  is  natural  to  wish  that  others  should 
love  what  we  love,  should  admire  what  we  admire. 
Our  desire  of  sympathy,  our  regard  for  justice,  both 
ask  it.  But  we  must  have  trust. 

"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies ; 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove." 

I   could   not   answer    the    Doctor   immediately. 


176  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

"  Whatever  course  Harry  may  take,"  I  said  at  last, 
"his  power  will  make  itself  felt.  He  will  disap- 
point neither  of  us." 

"  He  has  never  given  me  a  disappointment  yet ; 
though  I  prepare  myself  for  one,  whenever  he  begins 
anything  new.  We  have  no  right  to  expect  every- 
thing of  one  ;  but,  whatever  he  is  doing,  it  seems 
as  if  that  was  what  he  was  most  meant  to  do." 

"  It  is  in  part  his  simple-mindedness,  his  freedom 
from  the  disturbing  influence  of  self-love,  which 
gives  him  this  security  of  success  in  what  he  under- 
takes. You  have  said  that  Harry  was  one  to  take 
his  own  path.  I  will  trust  him  to  find  it  and  hold 
to  it." 

"  I  must  come  to  that,"  answered  the  Doctor, 
whose  anxiety  had  gradually  dissipated  itself.  "  I 
don't  know  why  I  should  hope  to  guide  him  now, 
if  I  could  not  when  he  was  seven  years  old.  On 
the  infantile  scale  his  characteristics  were  then  just 
what  they  are  now,  and  one  of  them  certainly 
always  was  to  have  a  way  of  his  own. 

" '  The  hero's  blood  is  not  to  be  controlled ; 
In  childhood  even  't  is  manly  masterful.' 

"  And  yet  he  was  always  so  tender  of  others'  feel- 
ings, so  ready  to  give  up  his  pleasure  for  theirs,  you 
might  almost  have  thought  him  of  too  yielding  a 
nature,  unless  you  had  seen  him  tried  on  some  point 
where  he  found  it  worth  while  to  be  resolved." 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  177 

The  Doctor  sat  silent  a  little  while,  held  by  pleas- 
ant thoughts,  and  then  began  again  :  — 

"  There  comes  back  to  me  now  an  earlier  recol- 
lection of  him  than  any  I  have  given  you.  I  wit- 
nessed once  a  contest  of  will  between  him  and  a 
person  who  was  put  over  the  nursery  for  a  time  in 
the  absence  of  its  regular  head,  and  who  was  not 
thoroughly  versed  in  the  laws  and  customs  of  the 
realm  she  was  to  administer.  Harry  could  not 
have  been  much  more  than  two,  I  think,  for  he  had 
hardly  yet  English  enough  for  his  little  needs.  He 
was  inflexible  on  his  side  ;  the  poor  woman  at  first 
positive  and  then  plaintive.  She  had  recourse  to 
the  usually  unfailing  appeal,  — '  But,  Harry,  do  you 
not  want  me  to  love  you  ? '  He  held  back  the  tears 
that  were  pressing  to  his  eyes,  —  '  I  want  all  the 
peoples  to  love  me.'  But  he  did  not  give  way, 
for  he  was  in  the  right. 

"  Candor,  however,  obliges  me  to  add  that  he  did 
not  always  give  way  when  he  was  in  the  wrong.  Oh, 
I  was  in  the  right  sometimes." — The  Doctor  laughed 
good-humoredly  in  answer  to  my  involuntary  smile. 
—  "  You  may  believe  it,  for  Harry  has  admitted  it 
himself  later.  Our  debates  were  not  always  fruit- 
less. I  have  known  him  come  to  me,  three  months, 
six  months,  after  a  discussion  in  which  wTe  had 
taken  opposite  sides,  and  say,  — '  I  see  now  that  you 
knew  better  about  that  than  I  did.  I  was  mistaken.' 
12 


178  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

On  the  other  hand,  some  of  his  little  sayings  have 
worked  on  me  with  time,  if  not  to  the  modifica- 
tion of  my  opinions,  at  least  to  that  of  my  con- 
duct, and  sometimes  in  a  way  surprising  to  myself. 
For  the  rest,  I  liked  to  have  him  hold  his  ground 
well,  and  was  just  as  content,  when  he  did  make 
a  concession,  that  it  was  made  out  of  deference,  not 
to  me,  but  to  truth. 

"  I  don't  know  whose  opinion  was  authority  with 
him.  He  did  not  respect  even  the  wisdom  of  the 
world's  ages  as  condensed  in  its  proverbs,  but 
coolly  subjected  them  to  the  test  of  his  uncom- 
promising reason.  I  remember  somebody's  cit- 
ing to  him  one  day,  '  A  penny  saved  is  a  penny 
earned.'  He  considered  it,  and  then  rejected  it 
decisively,  proposing  as  a  substitute,  —  '  A  penny 
spent  is  a  penny  saved.'  I  suppose  that  little  word 
of  his  has  spent  me  many  a  penny  I  might  have 
saved,  —  but  I  don't  know  that  I  am  the  poorer. 

"  Another  of  his  childish  sayings  passed  into  a 
by-word  in  the  household.  He  was  filling  with 
apples  for  her  grandchildren  the  tin  kettle  of  an  old 
family  pensioner,  whose  eyes  counted  the  rich,  red 
spoil,  as  it  rolled  in.  '  Enough ! '  says  the  conscien- 
tious gardener,  who  is  looking  on.  '  Enough  !  ' 
echoes  the  modest  beneficiary.  '  Enough  is  twt 
enough!'  gives  sentence  the  little  autocrat,  and 
heaps  the  measure.  I  thought  of  this  as  he  was 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  179 

walking  beside  me,  grave  and  silent,  over  Harvey's 
well-ordered  plantation.  'The  child  is  father  of 
the  man.' ' 

The  time  was  past  when  the  Doctor  had  scruples 
in  talking  of  Harry  or  I  in  asking.  He  forgot  his 
flowers,  and  I  my  writing.  Nothing  more  interest- 
ing to  me  than  real  stories  of  childhood.  As  a 
means  of  instruction,  it  seems  to  me  the.  study 
of  the  early  years  of  the  human  being  has  been 
strangely  neglected  by  the  wise.  I  listened  well, 
then,  whenever,  after  one  of  his  contemplative 
pauses,  the  Doctor  began  again  with  a  new  "  I 
remember." 

"  I  remember  being  in  the  garden  with  him  once 
when  a  barefooted  boy  came  in  and  asked  for  shoes. 
Harry  ran  off,  and  presently  reappeared  with  a  fine, 
shining  pair,  evidently  taken  on  his  own  judgment. 
A  woman,  who  had  been  looking  from  the  window, 
came  hurrying  out,  and  arrived  in  time  to  see  the 
shoes  walking  out  of  the  gate  on  strange  feet. 
'  Why,  Harry,  those  were  perfectly  good  shoes ! ' 
'  I  should  not  have  given  them  to  him,  if  they  had 
not  been  good,'  the  child  answered,  tranquilly. 
The  poor  woman  was  posed.  As  for  me,  I  ignored 
the  whole  affair,  that  I  might  not  be  obliged  to 
commit  myself.  But  I  thought  internally  that  we 
should  not  have  had  the  saying,  '  Cold  as  charity,' 
current  in  our  Christian  world,  if  all  its  neighborly 
love  had  been  of  the  type  of  Harry's. 


180  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

"  You  are  not  to  suppose  that  Harry  and  I  were 
always  at  variance.  Our  skirmishing  was  our  amuse- 
ment. He  was  teachable,  very  teachable,  —  and 
more  and  more  as  he  grew  older.  Some  of  the 
happiest  hours  I  have  to  look  back  upon  were 
passed  with  him  by  my  side,  his  reverent  and  ear- 
nest look  showing  how  devoutly,  with  what  serious 
joy,  his  3roung  soul  welcomed  its  first  conscious  per- 
ceptions- of  the  laws  of  Nature,  the  sacred  truths 
of  Science." 

BY  THE  RIVERSIDE. 

THE  morning  called  me  out  imperatively.  It  is 
almost  like  that  Sunday  morning  on  which  I  took 
my  first  early  walk  with  Harry.  I  fell  into  the 
same  path  we  followed  then.  This  path  led  us  to 
the  Dohuta.  We  walked  slowly  along  its  fringed 
bank,  as  I  have  been  walking  along  it  now,  and 
stopped  here  where  the  river  makes  a  little  bend 
round  a  just  perceptible  rising  graced  by  three  ilex- 
trees.  We  found  ourselves  here  more  than  once 
afterwards.  We  never  thought  beforehand  what 
way  we  should  take ;  we  could  not  go  amiss,  where 
we  went  together. 

The  river  holds  its  calm  flow  as  when  Harry  was 
beside  it  with  me.  Here  are  the  trees  whose  vio-- 

O 

orous  growth  he  praised,  their  thorny  foliage  glit- 
tering in  the  new   sunlight  as   it  glittered   then. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  181 

These  associates  of  that  pleasant  time,  renewing 
their  impressions,  awaken  more  and  more  vividly 
those  of  the  dearer  companionship. 

It  is  strange  the  faithfulness  with  which  the 
seemingly  indifferent  objects  about  us  keep  jfor  us 
the  record  of  hours  that  they  have  witnessed,  ren- 
dering up  our  own  past  to  us  in  a  completeness  in 
which  our  memory  would  not  have  reproduced  it 
but  for  the  suggestions  of  these  unchosen  con- 
fidants. Without  displacing  the  familiar  scene, 
distant  and  far  other  landscapes  rise  before  me, 
visions  that  Harry  Dudley  called  up  for  me  here  ; 
to  all  the  clear,  fresh  sounds  of  the  early  morn- 
ing join  themselves  again  our  asking  and  reply- 
ing voices. 

I  knew  at  once  when  a  place  had  a  particular 
interest  for  Harry,  by  the  tone  in  which  he  pro- 
nounced the  name.  Fiesole  was  always  a  beautiful 
word  for  me,  but  how  beautiful  now  that  I  must 
hear  in  it  his  affectionate  accent !  Volterra  has  a 
charm  which  it  does  not  owe  to  its  dim  antiquity, 
or  owes  to  it  as  revivified  by  him.  His  strong  sym- 
pathy, embracing  the  remoter  and  the  near,  makes 
the  past  as  actual  to  him  as  the  present,  and  both 
alike  poetic. 

Harry's  researches  have  not  been  carried  on  as  a 
pastime,  or  even  as  a  pursuit,  but  as  a  true  study, 
a  part  of  his  preparation  for  a  serviceable  life.  It 


182  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

is  the  history  of  humanity  that  he  explores,  and  he 
reads  it  more  willingly  in  its  achievements  than 
in  its  failures.  The  remains  of  the  early  art  of 
Etruria,  its  grand  works  of  utility,  give  evidence 
of  the  immemorial  existence  of  a  true  civilization 
upon  that  favored  soil,  the  Italy  of  Italy. 

Among  the  retributions  of  time  —  as  just  in  its 
compensations  as  in  its  revenges  —  there  is  hardly 
one  more  remarkable  than  this  which  is  rendering 
justice  to  the  old  Etruscans,  awakening  the  world 
to  a  long  unacknowledged  debt.  Their  annals  have 
been  destroyed,  their  literature  has  perished,  their 
very  language  has  passed  away ;  but  their  life  wrote 
itself  on  the  country  for  whose  health,  fertility,  and 
beauty  they  invented  and  labored,  —  wrote  itself  in 
characters  so  strong  that  the  wear  of  the  long  ages 
has  not  effaced  them.  This  original  civilization  has 
never  been  expelled  from  the  scene  of  its  ancient 
reign.  Through  all  changes,  under  all  oppressions, 
amid  all  violences,  it  has  held  itself  in  life,  —  has 
found  means  to  assert  and  reassert  its  beneficent 
rights.  Its  very  enemies  have  owed  to  it  that  they 
have  been  able  to  blend  with  their  false  glory  some 
share  of  a  more  honorable  fame.  In  its  early  seats 
it  has  never  left  itself  long  without  a  witness ;  but 
still  some  new  gift  to  the  world,  in  letters,  in  art, 
or  in  science,  has  given  proof  of  its  yet  unexhausted 
resources. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  183 

As  freedom  is  older  than  despotism,  so  civiliza- 
tion is  older  than  barbarism.  Man,  made  in  the 
image  of  God,  was  made  loving,  loyal,  beneficently 
creative. 

No  country  except  his  own  is  nearer  to  Harry's 
heart  than  Italy,  —  not  even  France,  though  it  is 
almost  a  second  home  to  him  ;  but  perhaps  there 
cannot  be  that  passion  in  our  love  for  the  prosper- 
ous. For  me,  too,  Italy  has  always  stood  alone,  — 
sacred  in  her  triple  royalty  of  beauty,  genius,  arid 
sorrow. 

Harry  has  ties  of  his  own  to  Italy,  and  of  those 
which  endear  most  closely.  It  was  the  scene  of  his 
first  great  grief,  —  as  yet  his  only  one.  The  firm, 
devout  expression  which  his  face  took,  whenever  he 
spoke  of  his  brother,  showed  that  the  early  depart- 
ure of  the  friend  with  whom  he  had  hoped  to  walk 
hand  in  hand  through  life  had  not  saddened  or  dis- 
couraged him,  —  had  only  left  with  him  a  sense  of 
double  _  obligation. 

Harry  does  not  speak  of  himself  uninvited ;  but 
he  was  ready  to  do  so,  as  simply  and  frankly  as  of 
anything  else,  when  I  drew  him  to  it.  He  has  his 
day-dreams  like  other  young  men,  and  found  a  true 
youthful  delight  in  sharing  them.  I  could  not  but 
observe  that  into  his  plans  for  the  future  —  apart 
from  the  little  home,  vaguely,  yet  tenderly  sketched, 
for  which  a  place  was  supposed  in  them  —  his  own 


184  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

advantage  entered  only  inasmuch  as  they  provided 
him  a  sphere  of  beneficent  activity. 

The  one  great  duty  of  our  time  may  oblige  him 
to  postpone  all  designs  which  have  not  its  fulfilment 
for  their  immediate  object.  But  only  to  postpone, 
I  will  hope.  For  why  should  we  suppose  that  the 
struggle  with  slavery  is  to  last  through  the  life  of 
the  present  generation  ?  May  we  not  believe  that 
the  time  may  come,  even  in  our  day,  when  we  shall 
only  have  to  build  and  to  plant,  no  longer  to  over- 
throw and  uproot  ? 

Karl  and  Fritz  have  found  me  out  here.  They 
came  to  propose  to  me  that  we  should  have  our  ser- 
vice this  morning  in  the  open  air,  at  the  same  place 
where  we  had  it  Sunday  before  last.  They  had 
already  been  at  the  house,  and  had  obtained  my 
mother's  assent.  Karl  was  the  spokesman,  as 
usual ;  but  he  stopped  at  the  end  of  every  sentence 
and  looked  for  his  brother's  concurrence. 

I  have  remarked  a  change  in  Karl  lately.  He 
has  the  advantage  of  Fritz,  not  only  in  years,  but 
in  capacity  and  energy.  He  has  always  been  a 
good  brother  ;  but  his  superiority  has  been  fully 
taken  for  granted  between  them,  and  all  its  rights 
asserted  and  admitted  without  a  struggle.  Within 
a  short  time,  however,  his  character  has  matured 
rapidly.  He  has  shown  greater  consideration  for 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  185 

Fritz,  and  in  general  more  sympathy  with  what  is 
weaker  or  softer  or  humbler  than  himself.  I  had 
observed  a  greater  thoughtfulness  in  him  before 
Harry  Dudley's  visit  here.  But  that  short  inter- 
course has  extended  his  view  in  many  directions. 
The  entire  absence  of  assumption,  where  there  was 
so  incontestable  a  superiority,  could  not  but  affect 
him  profoundly.  And  then  Harry,  although  Karl's 
strength  and  cleverness  made  him  a  very  satisfac- 
tory work-fellow,  took  a  great  interest  in  Fritz,  in 
whom  he  discovered  fine  perceptions.  He  tried  to 
draw  him  out  of  his  reserve,  and  to  give  him  pleas- 
ure by  making  him  feel  he  could  contribute  to  that 
of  others.  Some  latent  talents,  which  the  shy  boy 
had  cultivated  unnoticed,  brought  him  into  a  new 
importance.  He  knows  the  habits  of  all  our  birds, 
and  has  a  marvellous  familiarity  with  insects.  His 
observations  on  their  modes  of  life  had  been  so  exact, 
that  Doctor  Borrow,  in  questioning  him,  had  almost 
a  tone  of  deference.  He  was  able  to  render  signal 
service  to  the  Doctor,  too,  by  discovering  for  him, 
from  description,  tiny  plants  hard  to  find  when  out 
of  bloom.  Hans,  who  is  fondest  of  the  son  that 
never  rivalled  him,  exulted  greatly  in  this  sudden 
distinction.  Karl  took  a  generous  pleasure  in  it ; 
and,  under  the  double  influence  of  increased  respect 
from  without  and  enhanced  self-esteem,  Fritz's  diffi- 
dent powers  are  warming  out  wonderfully. 


186  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

The  boys  thanked  me  very  gratefully,  as  if  I 
had  done  them  a  real  favor,  when  I  gave  my  con- 
sent to  their  plan  ;  though  I  do  not  know  why  they 
should  not  suppose  it  as  agreeable  to  me  as  to  them- 
selves. 

EVENING. 

WHEN  I  went  home  to  breakfast  this  morning,  I 
found  the  chairs  already  gone,  except  the  great  arm- 
chair. Nobody  was  expected  to-day  of  sufficient 
dignity  to  occupy  it.  I  was  unwilling  to  draw  it  up 
to  the  table  for  myself.  I  believe  I  should  have 
taken  my  breakfast  standing,  if  it  had  not  been  that 
this  would  have  called  for  explanation.  How  little  I 
thought,  when  the  Doctor  first  took  his  place  among 
us,  that  a  time  would  come  when  I  should  not  wish 
to  have  his  seat  filled  by  any  one  else  !  I  did  not 
know  how  much  I  cared  for  him,  until  after  he  was 
gone ;  I  do  not  think  I  knew  it  fully  until  this 
morning,  when  I  came  in  and  saw  that  solitary, 
empty  chair.  Then  it  came  over  me  with  a  pang 
that  he  would  never  lay  down  the  law  to  me  from 
it  again,  —  never  would  lean  towards  me  sideways 
over  its  arm,  to  tell  me,  with  moderated  tone  and 
softened  look,  little  childish  stories  of  his  foster- 
son. 

Karl  stayed  behind  to-day,  instead  of  Tabitha,  to 
warn  those  who  arrived  of  the  place  of  meeting. 
He  came  in  with  the  Lintons,  who  were  late,  —  the 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  187 

fault  of  their  poor  old  mule,  or  rather  his  misfor- 
tune. He  fell  down,  and  so  broke  and  otherwise 
deranged  his  ingenious  harness  that  the  family 
were  obliged  to  re-manufacture  it  on  the  road. 

My  mother  did  a  courageous  thing  this  morning. 
When  the  Hanthams  came,  she  addressed  them  by 
name,  and,  calling  the  daughter  up  to  her,  took  her 
hand  and  said  some  kind  words  to  her.  I  thought 
they  would  be  thrown  away  on  her,  but  they  were 
not.  Her  look  to-day  had  in  it  less  of  purpose  and 
more  of  sympathy.  The  Blantys  were  not  here. 
I  cannot  understand  why,  in  such  fine  weather. 
We  missed  them  very  much.  But  all  the  rest  of 
those  who  are  most  to  be  desired  came.  We  had 
a  happy  and  united  little  assemblage. 

I  read  Jeremy  Taylor's  second  sermon  on  the 
"Return  of  Prayers."  I  am  sure  that  we  all  heard 
and  felt  together,  and  were  left  with  softened  and 
more  trustful  hearts  ;  yet  doubtless  each  took  away 
his  own  peculiar  lesson  or  solace,  according  to  his 
separate  need.  What  has  remained  with  me  is  a 
quickened  sense  of  the  Divine  munificence,  which 
so  often  grants  us  more  and  better  than  we  pray 
for.  "  We  beg  for  a  removal  of  a  present  sadness, 
and  God  gives  us  that  which  makes  us  able  to  bear 
twenty  sadnesses." 

After  the  services  were  over,  Franket  came  up 
and  handed  me  a  letter,  —  a  most  unexpected  and 


188  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

a  most  welcome  one.  If  I  had  not  seen  Harry's 
writing  before,  I  think  I  should  have  known  his 
strong,  frank  hand.  I  held  the  letter  up  before  my 
mother,  and  her  face  brightened  with  recognition. 
Harry  writes  in  fine  spirits.  The  Doctor  has  been 
very  successful.  And  they  met  Shaler  again. 
"  Perhaps  he  will  be  one  of  us  on  the  nineteenth." 
That  is  good  news  indeed.  Altogether  this  has 
been  a  very  happy  Sunday. 

Davis  Barton  stayed  with  us  until  four  o'clock, 
and  then  I  rode  part  of  the  way  home  with  him. 
This  boy  is  becoming  of  importance  to  me ;  he  is 
bringing  a  new  interest  into  my  life.  This  morn- 
ing, after  I  had  read  Harry's  letter  aloud,  and  after 
my  mother  had  read  it  over  again  to  herself,  I  gave 
it  to  him  to  read.  His  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  cast 
up  to  me  a  quick  glance  of  gratitude ;  for  he  felt,  as 
I  meant  he  should,  that  this  was  a  mode  of  admit- 
ting him  to  full  fellowship.  I  saw,  as  he  walked  off 
before  us  to  the  house,  that  he  was  a  little  taller 
already  with  the  sense  of  it.  Just  before  we  ar- 
rived, however,  he  was  overtaken  by  a  sudden 
humiliation.  Looking  round  at  me,  who,  with 
Fritz,  was  carrying  my  mother's  couch,  the  poor 
child  espied  Karl  and  Tabitha  following,  both 
loaded  with  chairs.  He  stood  for  an  instant  thor- 
oughly shame-stricken,  and  then  darted  by  us  with- 
out lifting  his  eyes.  He  made  so  many  and  such 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  189 

rapid  journeys,  that  he  brought  back  more  chairs 
than  anybody,  after  all.  When  dinner  was  over,  I 
gave  Davis  some  engravings  to  look  at,  meaning  to 
spend  an  hour  in  writing  to  you.  I  had  taken  out 

• 

my  portfolio,  but  had  not  yet  begun  to  write,  when 
I  found  him  standing  beside  me,  looking  up  at  me 
with  a  pretty,  blushing  smile,  which  asked  me  to 
ask  him  what  he  wanted.  He  wanted  me  to  teach 
him.  —  "  What  do  you  want  to  learn  ?  "  —  "  What- 
ever I  ought  to  know."  —  Whatever  I  am  able  to 
teach,  then,  I  will  teach  him,  and  perhaps  more ; 
for,  in  thinking  out  what  he  ought  to  know,  I  shall 
discover  what  I  ought  to  know  myself.  It  was 
soon  settled.  He  is  to  come  over  three  times  a 
week,  very  early  in  the  morning.  I  shall  give  him 
an  hour  before  breakfast,  and  another  in  the  course 
of  the  day.  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  testing 
some  of  the  theories  I  have  talked  over  with  Harry. 
Davis  has  a  good  mother,  and  has  been  pretty  well 
taught,  and,  what  is  more  important,  very  well 
trained,  up  to  this  time.  I  am  looking  forward  to  a 
busier  and  more  useful  summer  than  I  have  known 
for  a  long  while. 


MONDAY,  April  15,  1844. 

"  WHEN  are  we  going  to  see  the  Shaler  planta- 
tion ?  "  the  Doctor  asked  me  abruptly  one  morning 
at  breakfast.  "  We  passed  it  by  on  our  way  here, 
knowing  that  we  should  have  more  pleasure  in 
going  over  it  with  you." 

I  had  been  over  it  only  once  since  Shaler  left  it, 
and  that  once  was  with  himself  on  one  of  his  rare 
visits.  Franket's  house  is  near  the  great  gates.  It 
was  a  porter's  lodge  in  the  old  time,  and  is  now  a 
sort  of  post-office,  —  Franket  having  added  to  his 
other  avocations  the  charge  of  going  once  a  week 
to  Tenpinville  with  letters  intrusted  to  him,  and 
bringing  back  those  he  is  empowered  to  receive. 
When  I  go  there  to  ask  for  letters  or  to  leave  them, 
no  old  associations  are  roused,  for  I  did  not  use  the 
main  entrance  formerly.  I  had  a  key  to  a  little 
gate  which  opens  on  a  bridle-path  through  the  oak- 
wood.  I  entered  the  grounds  through  this  gate 
when  I  was  last  there  with  Shaler,  and  I  had 
pleased  myself  with  the  thought,  that,  when  I  en- 
tered them  by  it  again,  it  would  be  again  with  him, 
on  that  happy  return  to  which  he  is  always  looking 
forward. 

But  it  seemed  no  violation  of  my  compact  with 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  191 

myself  to  unlock  this  gate  for  Harry,  to  walk  with 
him  through  these  grounds  sacred  to  him  as  to  me ; 
for  I  knew  that  in  his  thought,  as  in  mine,  these 
untenanted  lands  were  not  so  much  deserted  as 
dedicated.  It  was  right  that  these  places  should 
know  him.  And  what  pleasure  hereafter  to  talk 
of  him  as  having  been  there,  —  to  point  -  out  to 
Shaler  the  trees  he  had  distinguished,  the  views 
that  had  delighted  him  !  But  I  wished  this  visit  to 
be  the  last  we  should  make  together.  My  delay  in 
proposing  it  had,  perhaps,  made  Harry  attribute  to 
me  a  secret  reluctance.  After  the  first  eager  ex- 
pression of  his  desire  to  see  the  early  home  of  his 
friend  and  mine,  when  we  talked  of  Shaler  together 
that  pleasant  afternoon  on  Prospect  Hill,  he  did  not 
mention  the  subject  again.  The  Doctor  did  not 
second  him  then  ;  but  I  knew  he  felt  as  much  curi- 
osity as  Harry  did  interest,  before  his  impatience 
broke  bounds  as  I  have  told  you. 

"Let  us  go  on  Thursday,  if  you  will,"  I  an- 
swered. 

Harry  understood  me.  —  "  The  right  day !  " 

"  Any  day  is  the  right  one  for  me,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor, who  would  have  named  an  earlier  one,  perhaps, 
if  I  had  asked  him  to  choose. 

On  Thursday,  then,  the  last  day  but  one  of  their 
•visit  here,  I  was  their  guide  over  "  The  Farms." 

Two  brothers  settled  at  Metapora  side  by  side. 


192  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

Their  two  plantations  were  carried  on  as  one,  under 
the  direction  of  the  younger  brother,  Colonel  Shaler, 
the  father  of  my  friend.  The  brothers  talked  to- 
gether of  "  The  Farms  "  ;  their  people  took  up  the 
name ;  it  gradually  became  the  accepted  one  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  has  maintained  itself,  although 
the  two  places,  having  both  been  inherited  by 
Charles  Shaler,  are  now  really  one  estate. 

I  opened  the  little  gate  for  the  Doctor  and  Harry 
to  pass  in,  and  followed  them  along  the  wood-path. 
All  was  the  same  as  formerly ;  unkindly  the  same, 
it  seemed. 

"  You  have  not  been  missed,"  said  the  Doctor, 
entering  into  my  feeling,  though  not  quite  sympa- 
thizing with  it.  "  You  have  not  been  missed,  and 
you  are  not  recognized.  The  birds  are  not  jubilant 
because  you  have  come  back.  The  wood  was  as 
resonant  before  your  key  turned  in  the  lock."  He 
stopped  and  looked  about  him  at  the  grand  old  oaks. 
"  The  man  who  grew  up  under  these  trees,  and  calls 
them  his,  may  well  long  for  them,  but  they  will  wait 
very  patiently  for  his  return.  We  could  not  spare 
trees  and  birds,  but  they  can  do  without  us  well 
enough.  Strange  the  place  of  man  on  his  earth  ! 
Everything  is  necessary  to  him,  and  he  is  necessary 
to  nothing." 

Shaler  had  left  the  key  of  his  house  with  me. 
There  could  be  no  indiscretion  in  introducing  such 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  193 

guests  into  it.  We  went  first  into  the  dining-room. 
Everything  was  as  it  used  to  be,  except  that  the 
family  portraits  had  been  taken  away.  The  cords 
to  which  they  had  been  attached  still  hung  from 
the  hooks,  ready  to  receive  them  again.  The  large 
oval  table  kept  its  place  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
What  pleasant  hours  I  had  had  in  that  room,  at 
that  table  1 

Colonel  Shaler  was  our  first  friend  in  this  part 
of  the  world.  My  father  and  he  were  distantly 
related,  and  had  had  a  week's  acquaintance  at 
the  house  of  a  common  friend  when  my  father 
was  a  very  young  man  and  the  Colonel  a  middle- 
aged  one.  On  the  third  day  after  our  arrival  here, 
my  father  somewhat  nervously  put  into  my  hand 
a  note  which  had  taken  some  time  to  write,  and 
asked  me  to  find  the  way  with  it  to  Colonel  Sha- 
ler's  plantation,  which  lay  somewhere  within  ten 
miles  of  us  in  a  southeasterly  direction.  As  I  was 
to  go  on  hoi'seback,  I  liked  the  adventure  very 
much,  and  undertook  it  heartily.  I  was  first  made 
conscious  that  it  had  a  shady  side,  when  I  found 
myself  in  the  hall  of  the  great,  strange  house,  wait- 
ing to  be  ushered  into  the  presence  of  its  master. 

"  Hallo  !  "  exclaimed  a  voice  beside  and  far  above 
me,  as  I  stood  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  ex- 
pecting that  serious  moment  of  entrance.  "  You 
are  Ned  Colvil's  son  !  "  And  my  hand  was  lost 
13 


194  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

in  a  capacious  clasp,  well  proportioned  to  the  heart 
it  spoke  for.  I  looked  up  to  see  a  massive  head, 
shaggy  with  crisp  curls  of  grizzled  hair,  and  to  meet 
quick,  bright  blue  eyes,  that  told  of  an  active  spirit 
animating  the  heavy  frame.  The  Colonel  did  not 
expect  me  to  speak.  "  We  are  to  be  neighbors  ! 
Good  news !  Your  horse  cannot  go  back  at  once, 
and  I  cannot  wait.  You  must  take  another  for 
to-day,  and  we  will  send  yours  home  to  you  to- 
morrow." 

Colonel  Shaler's  stout  gray  was  soon  led  round, 
and  presently  followed,  for  me,  a  light-made,  grace- 
ful black,  the  prettiest  horse  I  had  ever  yet  mounted. 
As  soon  as  I  saw  it,  I  knew  that  it  must  be  his  son's, 
and  visions  of  friendship  already  floated  before  me. 

"  One  of  Charles's,"  said  the  Colonel ;  "  he  is 
out  on  the  other.  I  wish  he  was  here  to  go  with 
us,  but  we  cannot  wait." 

I  did  not  keep  the  Doctor  and  Harry  long  in  the 
house.  It  was  the  plantation  they  wanted  to  see. 
We  spent  several  hours  in  walking  over  it.  I  tried 
to  do  justice,  not  only  to  the  plans  and  works  of  my 
friend,  but  to  his  father's  schemes  of  agricultural 
improvement,  and  also  to  the  very  different  labors 
of  his  uncle,  Dr.  George  Shaler,  who,  utterly  ab- 
stracted from  matters  of  immediate  utility,  took 
the  beautiful  and  the  future  under  his  affectionate 
protection.  Through  his  vigilance  and  pertinacity, 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  195 

trees  were  felled,  spared,  and  planted,  with  a  judg- 
ment rare  anywhere,  singular  here.  If  he  gave  into 
some  follies,  such  as  grottos,  mimic  ruins,  and  sur- 
prises, after  the  Italian  fashion,  even  these  are  be- 
coming respectable  through  time.  They  are  very 
innocent  monuments ;  for  their  construction  gave  as 
much  delight  to  those  who  labored  as  to  him  who 
planned,  and  the  completed  work  was  not  less  their 
pride  than  his.  His  artificial  mounds,  which,  while 
they  were  piling,  were  the  jest  of  the  wider  neigh- 
borhood,—  as  the  good  old  man  himself  has. often 
told  me,  —  now,  covered  with  thrifty  trees,  skilfully 
set,  are  a  legacy  which  it  was,  perhaps,  worth  the 
devotion  of  his  modest,  earnest  life  to  bequeath. 

Charles  Shaler  has  piously  spared  all  his  uncle's 
works,  —  respecting  the  whimsical,  as  well  as  cher- 
ishing the  excellent. 

We  went  last  to  the  quarters  of  the  work-people. 
A  few  of  the  cabins  were  left  standing.  Most  of 
them  had  been  carried  off  piecemeal,  probably  to 
build  or  repair  the  cabins  of  other  plantations. 
Those  that  remained  seemed  to  have  been  pro- 
tected by  the  strength  and  beauty  of  the  vines  in 
which  they  were  embowered.  1  was  glad  to  find 
still  unmolested  one  which  had  an  interest  for  me. 
It  had  been  the  home  of  an  old  man  who  used  to 
be  very  kind  to  me.  I  lifted  the  latch  and  was 
opening  the  door,  when  I  became  aware  of  a  move- 


196  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

ment  inside,  as  of  some  one  hastily  and  stealthily 
putting  himself  out  of  sight.  If  this  was  so,  the 
purpose  was  instantly  changed ;  for  a  firm  step  came 
forward,  and  the  door  was  pulled  open  by  a  strong 
hand.  I  stepped  back  out  of  the  little  porch,  and 
addressed  some  words  to  the  Doctor,  to  make 
known  that  I  was  not  alone  ;  but  the  man  followed 
me  out,  and  saluted  me  and  my  companions  respect- 
fully and  frankly.  I  offered  him  my  hand,  for  he 
was  an  old  acquaintance. 

"  Senator,  why  are  you  here  ?  " 

"  Because  I  ought  to  be  here." 

"  There  is  danger." 

He  did  not  reply,  but  the  kindling  of  his  look 
showed  that  he  saw  in  danger  only  a  challenge 
to  his  powers.  He  saluted  us  again,  and  walking 
away,  with  a  slow,  even  step,  disappeared  in  a 
thicket  which  shrouded  one  of  Dr.  George's  favor- 
ite grottos. 

"  The  true  Othello,  after  all !  "  exclaimed  the 
Doctor,  when  we  turned  to  each  other  again,  af- 
ter watching  until  we  were  sure  that  we  had  seen 
the  last  of  this  apparition.  "  Of  royal  siege,  assur- 
edly!" 

"  He  claims  to  be,  or  rather  it  is  claimed  for  him," 
I  answered.  "  His  mother  was  a  native  African,  a 
king's  daughter,  those  who  came  with  her  said; 
and  she  bore,  by  all  accounts,  the  stamp  of  primi- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  197 

tive  royalty  as  clearly  impressed  as  her  son  does. 
Her  title  was  never  questioned  either  in  the  cabin 
or  at  the  great  house.  She  was  a  slave  on  the 
Westlake  plantation,  —  but  only  for  a  few  weeks, 
as  I  have  heard." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  her  ?  "  the  Doctor  asked. 

"  No,  she  died  long  ago ;  but  her  story  is  still 
told  on  the  plantation  and  in  the  neighborhood. 
Old  Westlake  bought  her  with  four  others,  all 
native  Africans,  at  Perara.  The  rest  throve  and 
made  themselves  at  home.  She,  stately  and  still, 
endured  until  she  had  received  her  son  into  the 
world,  and  then,  having  consigned  him  to  a  foster- 
mother  of  her  choice,  passed  tranquilly  out  of  it. 
During  her  short  abode  on  the  plantation,  she  was 
an  object  of  general  homage,  and  when  she  died, 
the  purple  descended  to  her  son." 

"  And  the  son  has  his  story  ?  "  said  the  Doc- 
tor. 

"  A  short  one." 

The  Doctor  and  Harry  both  turned  to  me  with 
expectation.  They  knew  the  Westlake  plantation 
and  its  master ;  but  you  do  not.  If  Senator's  story 
has  not  the  interest  for  you  that  it  had  for  them, 
that  must  be  the  reason. 

The  prestige  of  rank  was  the  only  inheritance 
of  the  little  foreign  orphan.  The  very  name  his 
mother  gave  him,  and  which  she  impressed,  by  fre- 


198  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

quent,  though  faint  repetition,  upon  those  about  her, 
was  lost  in  the  surprise  of  her  sudden  departure. 
The  good  souls  to  whom  it  had  been  committed 
strove  faithfully  to  recover  it.  They  were  sure  it 
was  no  proper  Christian  name,  but  a  title  of  dig- 
nity ;  and,  comparing  their  recollections  of  the 
sound,  and  their  intuitions  of  the  meaning,  agreed 
among  themselves  that  its  nearest  equivalent  must 
be  "  Senator." 

Senator  was  born  on  Christmas  day ;  and  this  was 
regarded  as  all  the  greater  distinction  that  it  had 
been  enjoyed  before  him  by  the  young  master, — 
the  then  heir  and  now  owner,  our  present  West- 
lake. 

As  he  grew  up,  he  took,  as  of  course,  and  held,- 
the  place  assigned  to  him  in  advance.  At  the  age  of 
sixteen  he  was  already  in  authority  over  men,  and 
exercised  it  with  an  ease  and  acceptance  which 
proved  that  he  was  obeyed  as  instinctively  as  he 
commanded. 

I  do  not  know  a  prouder  man  than  Westlake,  or 
one  more  saturated  with  the  prejudice  of  race.  But 
he  is  not  exempt  from  the  laws  which  govern  human 
intercourse.  He  came  under  the  spell  of  Senator's 
cool  self-reliance  and  unhesitating  will.  The  petted 
slave  did  not  directly  or  palpably  misuse  his  power ; 
yet  his  demeanor  occasioned  a  secret  dissatisfaction. 
He  gave  to  his  master's  interests  the  whole  force  of 


EIFTEEN  DAYS.  199 

his  remarkable  abilities,  but  it  was  not  clear  that  he 
duly  appreciated  the  indulgence  which  permitted 
him  to  exercise  them  untrammelled.  He  had  never 
undergone  punishment,  —  had  hardly  even  met 
rebuke  ;  but  it  was  more  than  suspected  4;hat  he 
attributed  his  immunities  to  his  own  merits.  West- 
lake  valued  him  for  his  high  spirit  as  much  as  for 
his  capacity ;  but  should  not  Senator  be  very  sen- 
sible to  such  magnanimity  ?  This  spirit  had  never 
been  broken  by  fear ;  ought  it  not  all  the  more  to 
bend  itself  in  love  and  gratitude  ? 

Poor  Westlake  is  very  fond  of  gratitude.  He 
enjoys  it  even  from  the  most  worthless  and  neg- 
lected of  his  slaves,  —  enjoys  it  even  when  it  is  pro- 
spective and  conditional,  and  when  he  has  the  best 
reasons  for  knowing  that  the  implied  stipulations 
are  not  to  be  fulfilled.  To  Senator's  gratitude  he 
felt  he  had  so  entire  a  claim  that  he  could  not  but 
believe  in  its  existence.  He  tried  to  see  in  its  very 
silence  only  a  proof  of  its  depth.  But,  if  not  neces- 
sary to  his  own  feelings,  some  outward  expression 
was  important  to  his  dignity  in  the  eyes  of  others. 
He  exerted  himself,  therefore,  by  gracious  observa- 
tions made  in  the  presence  of  guests  or  before  the 
assembled,  people  on  holidays,  to  afford  Senator  an 
opportunity  at  once  of  testifying  to  his  master's 
liberality  and  of  displaying  the  eloquence  which 
was  one  of  the  chief  glories  of  the  plantation. 


200  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

These  condescending  efforts,  constantly  baffled  by 
the  self-possessed  barbarian,  were  perpetually  re- 
newed. 

One  Christmas  morning  the  common  flood  of 
adulation  had  been  poured  out  more  profusely  than 
usual,  and  Westlake  had  quaffed  it  with  more  than 
usual  satisfaction.  His  outlay  for  the  festival  had 
been  truly  liberal,  and  he  felt  that  the  quality  of 
the  entertainment  guarantied  that  of  the  thanks. 
Besides  the  general  benevolence  of  the  dinner, — 
already  arranged  on  long,  low  tables  set  about  the 
lawn,  to  be  enjoyed  in  anticipation  by  their  devour- 
ing eyes,  —  special  gifts  were  bestowed  on  the  most 
deserving  or  the  most  favored.  Senator  was  greatly 
distinguished,  but  took  his  assigned  portion  in  si- 
lence ;  and  Westlake  felt,  through  every  tingling 
nerve,  that  the  attentive  crowd  had  seen,  as  he  had, 
that  it  was  received  as  a  tribute  rather  than  as  a 
favor.  He  had  hitherto  covered  his  defeats  with 
the  jolly  laugh  that  seemed  meant  at  once  to  apolo- 
gize for  his  servant's  eccentricity  and  to  forgive  it. 
But  now  he  had  made  too  sure  of  triumph ;  surprise 
and  pain  hurried  him  out  of  himself. 

"  What  is  it  now  ?  "  he  cried,  fiercely,  raising  his 
clenched  fist  against  the  impassive  offender. 

"  I  have  not  spoken,  Master." 

"  Speak,  then  !  It  is  time.  I  have  done  more 
for  you  than  for  all  the  rest,  and  not  a  word  !  " 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  201 

"  We  have  done  more  for  you  than  you  for  us 
all.  What  you  give  us  we  'first  give  you." 

It  was  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen.  The  as- 
sembly scattered  like  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep. 

I  had  this  from  Westlake  himself.  He  came 
straight  over  to  me.  Not  that  Westlake  and  I  are 
friends.  There  had  never  been  any  intimacy  be- 
tween us.  There  never  has  been  any,  unless  for 
those  few  hours  that  day. 

Senator  had  been  secured.  His  sentence  had 
been  announced.  It  was  banishment.  Those  who 
were  nearest  the  master's  confidence  had  leave  to 
add  the  terrible  name  —  New  Orleans. 

Senator  had  neither  mother  nor  wife.  He  was 
nineteen,  the  age  of  enterprise  and  confidence. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  the  master  on  whom  the 
doom  would  fall  most  heavily,  I  thought,  while 
Westlake  was  making  his  recital.  He  was  almost 
pale  ;  his  heavy  features  were  sharpened  ;  his  firm, 
round  cheeks  were  flaccid  and  sunken ;  his  voice 
was  hoarse  and  tremulous.  Surely,  that  birthday 
might  count  for  ten. 

"I  cannot  overlook  it,"  he  groaned  out.  "You 
know  that  yourself,  Colvil.  I  cannot  forgive  it.  It 

would  be  against  my  duty,  and Any  way,  I 

cannot.  But  —  you  may  think  it  strange  —  but  I 
am  not  angry.  I  was,  but  I  am  not  now.  I  cannot 
bear  to  know  him  locked  up  there  in  the  corn-barn, 


202  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

shackled  and  chained,  and  thinking  all  the  time  that 
it  is  I  who  have  done 'it  to  him  !  " 

Westlake  had  not  seen  the  man  since  his  impris- 
onment, and  had  come  over  to  ask  me  to  be  present 
at  the  first  interview.  I  declined  positively. 

"  I  do  not  believe,"  I  said,  "  that  he  is  to  be  rea- 
soned out  of  his  opinions.  Certainly  he  will  not  be 
reasoned  out  of  them  by  me.  If  anything  could 
persuade  a  nature  like  his  to  submission,  it  would 
be  the  indulgent  course  you  have  till  now  pursued 
with  him.  If  that  has  failed,  no  means  within  your 
reach  will  succeed." 

"  You  do  not  understand  me.  I  do  not  want  you 
to  reason  with  him,  or  to  persuade  him  to  anything. 
I  only  ask  you  to  be  witness  to  what  I  am  going  to 
say  to  him,  that  he  may  believe  me,  —  that  he  may 
not  himself  thwart  me  in  my  plans." 

"  In  what  plans  ?  " 

"  Plans  that  you  will  agree  to,  and  that  you  will 
help  me  in,  I  hope,  —  but  which  I  cannot  trust  to 
any  one  but  you,  nor  to  you  except  to  have  your 
help.  If  you  will  come  with  me,  you  shall  know 
them  ;  if  not,  I  must  take  my  chance,  and  he  must 
take  his." 

I  did  not  put  much  faith  in  Westlake's  plans  ; 
but  the  thought  of  Senator  chained  and  caged  drew 
me  to  his  prison.  There  might  be  nothing  for  me 
to  do  there  ;  but,  since  I  was  called,  I  would  go. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  203 

By  the  time  my  horse  was  saddled,  Westlake  had 
recovered  his  voice,  and,  in  part,  his  color.  This 
birthday  would  not  count  for  more  than  five.  He 
plucked  up  still  more  on  the  road;  but  when  we 
came  within  a  mile  of  his  place,  his  trouble  began 
to  work  on  him  again.  He  would  have  lengthened 
that  last  mile,  but  could  not  much.  His  horse 
snuffed  home,  and  mine  a  near  hospitality.  Our 
entrance  sustained  the  master's  dignity  handsomely. 
There  was  no  misgiving  or  relenting  to  be  construed 
out  of  that  spirited  trot. 

We  went  together  to  the  corn-barn.  Senator 
was  extended  on  the  floor  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room.  He  lifted  his  head  when  we  entered,  and 
then,  as  if  compelled,  by  an  instinctive  courtesy, 
rose  to  his  fettered  feet.  I  saw  at  once  that  there 
had  been  no  more  harshness  than  was  needful  for 
security ;  it  even  seemed  that  this  had  not  been 
very  anxiously  provided  for.  The  slender  shackles 
would  be  no  more  than  withes  of  the  Philistines  to 
such  a  Samson.  A  chain,  indeed,  fastened  to  a 
strong  staple  in  the  floor,  passed  to  a  ring  in  an 
iron  belt  about  his  waist ;  but  it  was  long  enough  to 
allow  him  considerable  liberty  of  movement.  His 
hands  were  free.  Perhaps  Westlake  had  half  ex- 
pected to  find  the  room  empty.  He  stopped,  a  little 
startled,  when  he  heard  the  first  clank  of  the  chain, 
and  watched  his  prisoner  as  he  slowly  lifted  himself 


204  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

from  the  ground  and  rose  to  his  full  height.  Then, 
recollecting  himself,  he  went  forward.  One  igno- 
rant of  what  had  gone  before  might  have  mistaken 
between  the  culprit  and  the  judge. 

"  Senator,"  Westlake  began,  in  a  voice  whose 
faltering  he  could  not  control,  "  I  have  been  a  kind 
master  to  you." 

No  answer. 

"  You  allow  that  ?  " 

Senator  was  inflexible. 

"  I  would  never  have  sent  you  away  of  my  own 
free  will.  This  is  your  doing,  not  mine.  You  can- 
not want  to  go  !  "  This  in  indignant  surprise,  — 
for  something  like  a  smile  had  relaxed  the  features 
of  the  imperious  slave.  * 

Senator  spoke. 

"  This  is  my  home,  as  it  is  yours.  I  was  born 
here,  as  you  were.  This  land  is  dear  to  me  as  it  is 
to  you ;  dearer,  —  for  I  have  given  my  labor  to  it, 
and  you  never  have.  In  return,  I  have  had  a  sup- 
port, and  the  exercise  of  my  strength  and  my  skill. 
This  has  been  enough  for  me  until  now.  But  I  am 
a  man.  I  look  round  and  see  how  other  men  live. 
I  want  somebody  else  to  do  for  r  not  you,  but 
somebody  that  could  not  do  without  me." 

"  Things  might  have  gone  diiferently,"  Westlake 
began,  recovering  his  self-complacency,  as  visions, 
doubtless,  of  the  fine  wedding  he  would  have  given 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  205 

Senator,  of  the  fine  names  he  'would  have  bestowed 
upon  his  children,  rose  before  his  fancy.     "  Things 

might  have  gone  differently,  if  you  had  been  " 

"  If  I  had  been  what  I  am  not,"  answered  Sena- 
tor, becoming  impatient  as  Westlake  relapsed  into 
pomposity.  "  It  is  enough,  Master.  We  have  done 
with  each  other,  and  we  both  know  it.  Let  me 

go-" 

"  I  will  let  you  go,"  —  Westlake  spoke  now  with 
real  dignity,  —  "  but  not  as  you  think.  If  I  would 
have  you  remember  what  I  have  been  to  you,  it  is 
for  your  own  sake,  not  for  mine.  I  am  used  to 
ingratitude;  I  do  not  complain  of  yours.  I  have 
never  sold  a  servant  left  me  by  my  father,  and  I  do 
not  mean  to  begin  with  you.  You  shall  not  drive 
me  to  it.  You  are  to  go,  and  forever,  but  by  your 
own  road.  I  will  set  you  on  it  myself.  Is  there 
any  one  in  the  neighborhood  you  can  trust  ?  We 
shall  need  help." 

A  doubtful  smile  passed  over  Senator's  face. 

"  There  is  no  one,  then  ?     Think  !  no  one  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  so  unhappy.  There  are  those  whom 
I  trust." 

"  Then  I  will  trust  them.  Tell  me  who  they 
are  and  where  they  are.  And  quick  !  This  news 
will  be  everywhere  soon.  To-morrow  morning  the 
neighbors  will  be  coming  in.  What  is  done  must 
be  done  to-night.  Senator,  do  not  ruin  yourself! 


206  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

I  mean  right  by  you'.  Here  is  Mr.  Colvil  to  wit- 
ness to  what  I  say.  Is  this  mad  obstinacy  only  ?  or 
do  you  dare  not  to  trust  yourself  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  trust  to  you  those  who  trust  me." 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  would  give  up  those  whose 
aid  I  have  asked  ?  " 

"  You  would  know  where  to  find  them  when 
they  give  aid  you  have  not  asked." 

"  Colvil,  speak  to  him  !  If  he  goes  off  by  him- 
self, I  cannot  hide  it  long.  The  country  will  be 
roused.  I  shall  have  to  hunt  him  down  myself.  My 
honor  will  be  at  stake.  I  shall  have  to  do  it !" 

The  obdurate  slave  studied  his  master's  features 
with  curiosity  mingled  with  triumph. 

"  Help  me,  Colvil !  Help  him  !  Tell  him  to  listen 
to  my  plan  and  join  in  it !  The  useful  time  is  pass- 
ing!" 

"  Senator,"  I  said  at  last,  being  so  adjured, 
"  your  master  means  you  well.  He  is  not  free  to 
set  you  free,  —  you  know  it.  You  have  done  work 
for  him,  —  good  and  faithful  work  ;  but  never  yet 
have  you  done  him  a  pleasure,  and  he  has  intended 
you  a  good  many.  This  is  your  last  chance.  Gratify 
him  for  once  !  " 

Senator  looked  again,  and  saw,  through  the  intent 
and  wistful  eyes,  the  poor,  imploring  soul  within, 
which,  hurried  unconsenting  towards  crime,  clung 
desperately  to  his  rescue  as  its  own.  He  compre- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  207 

hended  that  here  was  no  tyrant,  but  a  wretched 
victim  of  tyranny.  A  laugh,  deep,  reluctant,  un- 
controllable, no  mirth  in  it,  yet  a  certain  bitter 
irony,  and  Senator  had  recovered  his  natural  bear- 
ing, self-possessed  and  authoritative;  he  spoke  in 
his  own  voice  of  composed  decision. 

"  What  is  the  plan,  Master  ?  " 

Westlake  told  it  eagerly.  He  was  to  save  his 
authority  with  his  people  and  his  reputation  with  his 
neighbors  by  selling  the  rebellious  servant,  —  that 
is  to  say,  by  pretending  to  sell  him.  Senator  was 
to  entitle  himself  to  a  commutation  of  his  sentence 
into  simple  banishment  by  lending  himself  to  the 
pious  fraud  and  acting  his  part  in  it  becomingly. 
Westlake  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to  smooth 
his  path  of  life  by  open  subterfuges  and  falsehoods 
whose  only  guilt  was  in  intention,  that  he  had 
formed  a  very  high  opinion  of  his  own  address,  and 
a  very  low  one  of  the  penetration  of  the  rest  of  the 
world.  As  he  proceeded  with  the  details  of  his 
plot,  childishly  ingenious  and  childishly  transparent, 
Senator  listened,  at  first  with  attention,  then  with 
impatience,  and  at  last  not  at  all.  When  Westlake 
stopped  to  take  breath,  he  interposed. 

"  Now  hear  me.  Order  the  long  wagon  out, 
with  the  roans.  Have  me  handcuffed  and  fastened 
down  in  it.  Tell  those  whom  you  trust  that  you 
•are  taking  me  to  Goosefield." 


208  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

"  To  Goosefield  ?  " 

"  To  Dick  Norman." 

"  Dick  Norman  !      He  help  you  !      He  is  not 

or,      ?   " 

dll  * 

Westlake  could  not  bring  himself  to  associate  the 
word  abolitionist  with  a  man  who  had  dined  with 
him  three  days  before. 

"  He  is  a  slave-trader." 

The  blood,  which  had  rushed  furiously  to  the 
proud  planter's  cheeks,  left  them  with  a  sudden 
revulsion.  To  be  taken  in  by  a  disguised  fanatic 
might  happen  to  any  man  too  honorable  to  be  sus- 
picious. He  could  have  forgiven  himself.  But  to 
have  held  a  slave-trader  by  the  hand  !  to  have 
asked  him  to  his  table  !  Westlake  knew  that  Sena- 
tor never  said  anything  that  had  to  be  taken  back. 

Richard  Norman  was  a  man  of  name  and  birth 
from  old  Virginia.  Of  easy  fortune,  so  it  was  re- 
ported, still  unmarried,  he  spent  a  great  part  of  the 
year  in  travelling  ;  and  especially  found  pleasure  in 
renewing  old  family  ties  with  Virginian  emigrants 
or  their  children  in  newer  States.  When  he  fa- 
vored our  neighborhood,  he  had  his  quarters  at 
Goosefield,  where  he  always  took  the  same  apart- 
ments in  the  house  of  a  man,  also  Virginian  by 
birth,  who  was  said  to  be  an  old  retainer  of  his 
family.  Norman's  father  had  been  the  fathers' 
friend  of  most  of  our  principal  planters.  He  was 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  209 

welcome  in  almost  every  household  for  the  sake  of 
these  old  memories,  and  apparently  for  his  own. 
He  was  well- looking,  well-mannered,  possessed  of 
various  information,  ready  with  amusing  anecdote. 
And  yet  all  the  time  it  was  perfectly  known  to 
every  slave  on  every  plantation  where  he  visited 
what  Mr.  Richard  Norman  was.  It  was  perfectly 
known  to  every  planter  except  Westlake,  and  possi- 
bly Harvey.  I  do  not  remember  to  have  heard 
of  him  at  Harvey's.  Those  who  never  sold  their 
servants,  those  who  never  separated  families,  those 
who  never  parted  very  young  children  from  their 
mothers,  found  Norman  a  resource  in  those  cases  of 
necessity  which  exempt  from  law. 

The  slaves  talked  of  him  among  themselves  famil- 
iarly, though  fearfully.  He  was  the  central  figure 
of  many  a  dark  history ;  the  house  at  Goosefield 
was  known  to  them  as  Dick  Norman's  Den.  The 
masters  held  their  knowledge  separately,  each 
bound  to  consider  himself  its  sole  depository.  If, 
arriving  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  soon  after  a  vis- 
itation of  Richard  Norman,  one  missed  a  familiar 
hand  at  his  bridle,  a  kind  old  face  at  the  door,  cu- 
riosity was  discreet;  it  would  have  been  very  ill 
manners  to  ask  whether  it  was  Death  or  Goosefield. 

"  Dick  Norman  starts  at  midnight.    He  has  been 
ready  these  three  days.     He  only  waited  to  eat  his 
Christmas  dinner  at  old  Rasey's." 
14 


210  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

Westlake  had  pondered  and  understood.  "Where 
shall  I  really  take  you  ?  "  he  asked,  despondingly. 

"  Leave  me  anywhere  six  or  eight  miles  from 
here,  and  I  will  do  for  myself." 

"  Colvil,  you  will  ride  along  beside  ?  " 

"No." 

I  find  in  myself  such  an  inaptitude  for  simulation 
or  artifice  of  any  kind,  that  I  de  not  believe  it  was 
intended  I  should  serve  my  fellow-men  by  those 
means. 

"  No,"  repeated  Senator,  —  "  not  if  we  are  going 
to  Goosefield." 

"  It  is  true,"  assented  Westlake,  sadly ;  "  nobody 
would  believe  you  were  going  with  me  there  ! " 

I  rode  off  without  taking  leave  of  Senator.  I  felt 
sure  of  seeing  him  again.  I  thought  I  knew  where 
the  aid  he  would  seek  was  to  be  found.  Mine  was 
just  the  half-way  house  to  it.  He  would  not  be 
afraid  of  compromising  me,  for  his  master  himself 
had  called  me  to  be  witness  to  their  compact. 
Senator  would  have  the  deciding  voice,  as  usual ; 
and  Westlake  would  be  guided  by  him  now  the 
more  readily  that  he  himself  would  tend  in  the 
direction  of  his  only  confidant.  When  I  had  put 
up  my  horse,  I  went  into  the  house  only  for  a  few 
moments  to  tell  my  mother  what  I  had  seen  and 
what  I  was  expecting. 

I  walked  up  and  down  between  the  gate  and  the 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  211 

brook  that  evening,  —  I  could  not  tell  how  long.  I 
had  time  to  become  anxious,  —  time  to  invent  disas- 
ters, —  time  to  imagine  encounters  Westlake  might 
have  had  on  the  way,  with  officious  advisers,  with 
self-proposed  companions.  I  was  disappointed  more 
than  once  by  distant  wheels,  which  came  nearer  and 
nearer  only  to  pass  on,  and  farther  and  farther 
away,  on  the  road  which,  crossing  ours,  winds 
round  behind  our  place  to  Winker's  Hollow.  At 
last  I  caught  sound  of  an  approach  which  did  not 
leave  me  an  instant  in  uncertainty.  This  time, 
beyond  mistake,  it  was  the  swift,  steady  tramp  of 
Westlake's  roans.  As  they  entered  our  sandy  lane, 
their  pace  slackened  to  a  slow  trot,  and  then  to  a 
walk.  Westlake  was  on  the  lookout  for  me.  I 
went  into  the  middle  of  the  road.  He  saw  me ;  I 
heard  him  utter  an  exclamation  of  relief. 

Senator,  who  had  been  stretched  out  on  the  bot- 
tom of  the  wagon,  sat  up  when  the  horses  stopped, 
took  the  manacles  from  his  wrists  and  threw  them 
down  on  the  straw.  With  his  master's  help,  he 
soon  disencumbered  himself  of  his  fetters,  and 
sprang  lightly  to  the  ground.  Westlake  followed, 
and  the  two  stood  there  in  the  starlight  confronting 
each  other  for  the  last  time. 

The  face  of  the  banished  man  was  inscrutable. 
His  master's  worked  painfully.  This  boy,  born  on 
his  own  twenty-first  birthday,  had  been  assigned  to 


212 


FIFTEEN  DAYS. 


him,  not  only  by  his  father's  gift,  but  also,  so  it 
seemed,  by  destiny  itself.  He  had  had  property  in 
him  ;  he  had  had  pride  in  him ;  he  had  looked  for  a 
life -long  devotion  from  him.  And  now,  in  one 
moment,  all  was  to  be  over  between  them  forever. 
The  scene  could  not  be  prolonged.  There  was 
danger  in  every  instant  of  delay. 

"  Westlake,  he  must  go." 

"  He  must  go,"  Westlake  repeated,  but  hesi- 
tatingly. And  then,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  he  put 
out  his  hand  to  his  forgiven,  even  if  unrepentant, 
servant. 

The  movement  was  not  met. 

"  No,  Master  ;  I  will  not  wrong  you  by  thanking 
you.  This  is  not  my  debt."  Senator  raised  to- 
wards heaven  the  coveted  hand.  "  It  is  His  who 
always  pays." 


TUESDAY,  April  16,  1844. 

You  can  always  tell  what  view  of  certain  ques- 
tions Harry  Dudley  will  take.  You  have  only  to 
suppose  them  divested  of  all  that  prejudice  or  nar- 
row interest  may  have  encumbered  them  with,  and 
look  at  them  in  the  light  of  pure  reason.  One  of 
the  charms  of  your  intercourse  with  Dr.  Borrow  is 
that  it  is  full  of  surprises. 

"  I  have  a  weakness  for  Westlake,  I  own  it," 
said  the  Doctor,  when  we  were  seated  at  the  tea- 
table  after  our  return  from  The  Two  Farms. 
"  If  you  had  known  him  when  he  was  young,  as 
I  did,  Colvil !  Such  an  easy,  soft-hearted,  depend- 
ent fellow  !  You  could  n't  respect  him  very  greatly, 
perhaps ;  but  like  him  you  must !  His  son  Regi- 
nald you  ought  to  like.  I  do.  And  —  what  you 
will  think  more  to  the  purpose  —  so  does  Harry." 

Harry  enforced  this  with  a  look. 

Reginald  Westlake  is  a  handsome  boy,  rather 
sullen-looking,  but  with  a  face  capable  of  beaming 
out  into  a  beautiful  smile.  He  is  always  distant  in 
his  manners  to  me,  I  do  not  know  whether  through 
shyness  or  dislike. 

"  He  will  make  a  man,"  Doctor  Borrow  went  on  ; 
"  if  I  am  any  judge  of  men,  he  will  make  a  man." 


214  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

The  Doctor  was  interrupted  by  the  brisk  trot  of 
a  horse  coining  up  the  road.  The  rider  did  not 
stop  at  the  gate  ;  he  cleared  it.  In  another  mo- 
ment Westlake's  jolly  red  face  was  looking  down 
on  us  through  the  window.  I  might  have  found 
this  arrival  untimely ;  but  turning  to  Harry  to 
know  how  he  took  it,  I  saw  in  his  eyes  the  "  merry 
sparkle  "  the  Doctor  had  told  of,  and  divined  that 
there  was  entertainment  in  a  colloquy  between  the 
classmates. 

Westlake  made  a  sign  with  his  hand  that  he  was 
going  to  take  his  horse  to  the  stable.  I  went  out 
to  him,  Harry  following.  I  welcomed  him  as  cor- 
dially as  I  could,  but  his  manner  was  reserved  at 
first.  We  had  not  met  in  a  way  to  be  obliged  to 
shake  hands  since  Shaler  went  away.  Westlake 
knew  that  I  was  greatly  dissatisfied  with  him  at 
that  time.  Not  more  so,  though,  than  he  was  with 
himself,  poor  fellow !  He  was  evidently  sincerely 
glad  to  see  Harry  again,  and  Harry  greeted  both 
him  and  his  horse  very  kindly.  Westlake  is  always 
well-mounted,  and  deserves  to  be  :  he  loves  his 
horses  both  well  and  wisely.  It  is  something  to  be 
thoroughly  faithful  in  any  One  relation  of  life,  and 
here  Westlake  is  faultless.  The  horse  he  rode  that 
afternoon  —  one  raised  and  trained  by  himself — 
bore  witness  in  high  spirit  and  gentle  temper  to  a 
tutor  who  had  known  how  to  respect  a  fiery  and 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  215 

affectionate  nature.  We  all  three  gave  our  cares 
to  the  handsome  creature,  and  this  common  inter- 
est put  me  quite  in  charity  with  my  unexpected 
guest  before  we  went  into  the  house. 

"  This  is  a  way  to  treat  an  old  friend !  "  cried 
Westlake,  as  he  gave  his  hand  to  the  Doctor,  who 
had  come  down  the  door-steps  to  meet  him.  "  I 
cannot  get  two  whole  days  from  you,  and  then  you 
come  here  and  stay  on  as  if  you  meant  to  live 
here  !  " 

Tabitha  watched  my  mother's  reception  of  the 
new-comer,  and,'  seeing  it  was  hospitable,  placed  an- 
other chair  at  the  table  with  alacrity.  She  knew 
he  was  out  of  favor  here,  but  had  never  thought 
very  hardly  of  him  herself.  Her  race  often  judges 
us  in  our  relations  with  itself  more  mildly  than  we 
can  judge  each  other.  In  its  strange  simplicity,  it 
seems  to  attribute  to  itself  the  part  of  the  superior, 
and  pities  where  it  should  resent. 

"  You  cannot  make  it  up  to  me,  Borrow,"  West- 
lake  went  on,  as  soon  as  we  had  taken  our  places, 
"  except  by  going  right  back  with  me  to-night,  or 
coming  over  to  me  to-morrow  morning,  and  giv- 
ing me  as  many  days  as  you  have  given  Colvil. 
Next  week  is  the  very  time  for  you  to  be  with  us. 
I  want  you  to  see  us  at  a  gala  season :  next  week 
is  the  great  marrying  and  christening  time  of  the 
year.  It  usually  comes  in  June  ;  but  this  year  we 


216  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

have  it  two  months  earlier,  on  account  of  Dr.  Bas- 
kow's  engagements.  My  little  Fanny  is  to  give  all 
the  names.  She  has  a  fine  imagination." 

"  Westlake,  I  would  do  all  but  the  impossible  to 
show  my  sense  of  your  kindness.  For  the  rest,  my 
appreciation  of  little  Miss  Fanny's  inventive  powers 
could  not  be  heightened." 

"  Does  that  mean  no  ?  Borrow,  I  shall  think 
in  earnest  that  you  have  done  me  a  wrong  in  giving 
so  much  time  away  from  me,  if  these  are  really 
your  last  days  in  our  parts." 

"  We  will  make  it  up  to  you.  I  will  tell  you 
how  we  will  make  it  up  to  you.  Come  to  us,  — 
come  to  Massachusetts  :  I  will  give  you  there  a 
week  of  my  time  for  every  day  we  have  taken  from 
you  here.  Come  to  us  in  June  :  that  is  the  month 
in  which  New  England  is  most  itself.  Come  and 
renew  old  associations." 

"  You  will  never  see  me  again,  if  you  wait  to  see 
me  there." 

"  What  now  ?     You  used  to  like  it." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  used  to  like  it,  when  I 
think  back  upon  it.  At  any  rate,  if  you  want  to 
see  me,  you  must  see  me  in  my  own  place.  I  am 
not  myself  anywhere  else.  Equality,  Borrow,  equal- 
ity is  a  very  good  thing  for  people  who  have  never 
known  anything  better :  may  be  a  very  good  thing 
for  people  who  can  work  themselves  up  out  of  it. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  217 

But  for  a  man  who  has  grown  up  in  the  enjoyment 
of  those  privileges  inappreciable  by  the  vulgar,  but 
which  by  the  noble  of  every  age  have  been  re- 
garded as  the  most  real  and  the  most  valuable,  — 
for  such  a  man  to  sit,  one  at  a  long  table,  feeling 
himself  nobody,  and  knowing  all  the  time  he  has  a 
right  to  be  somebody !  You  can  talk  very  easily 
about  equality.  You  have  never  suffered  from  it. 

You  have  your  learning  and Well,  you  know 

how  to  talk.  I  have  no  learning,  and  I  can't  talk, 
except  to  particular  friends.  A  man  cannot  ticket 
himself  with  his  claims  to  estimation.  Even  Paris 
has  too  much  equality  for  me.  Flora  liked  it ;  she 
had  her  beauty  and  her  toilet.  But  I  !  how  I 
longed  to  be  back  here  among  my  own  simple, 
humble  people  !  As  soon  as  she  was  married,  I 
made  off  home.  In  my  own  place,  among  my 
own  people,  I  am,  I  might  almost  say,  like  a  god, 
if  I  were  not  afraid  of  shocking  you.  And  is  not 
their  fate  in  my  hands  ?  My  frown  is  their  night, 
my  smile  is  their  sunshine.  The  very  ratification 
of  their  prayers  to  a  Higher  Power  is  intrusted 
to  my  discretion.  Homage,  Borrow,  homage  is  the 
sweetest  draught  ever  brought  to  mortal  lips  !  " 

"  The  homage  of  equals  I  suppose  may  be,"  said 
Dr.  Borrow,  modestly. 

"  You  do  not  understand.  How  should  you  ? 
Our  modes  of  thinking  and  feeling  are  not  to  be 


218  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

comprehended  by  one  brought  up  in  a  society  so 
differently  constituted.  We  avow  ourselves  an 
aristocracy." 

"  You  do  well :  something  of  the  inherent  mean- 
ing of  a  word  will  always  make  itself  felt.  Aris- 
tocracy !  It  is  vain  to  try  to  dispossess  it  of  its  own. 
The  world  will  not  be  disenchanted  of  the  beautiful 
word.  Cover  yourselves  with  its  prestige.  It  will 
stand  you  in  good  stead  with  outsiders.  But,  be- 
tween ourselves,  Westlake,  how  is  it  behind  the 
scenes  ?  Can  you  look  each  other  in  the  face  and 
pronounce  it  ?  Or  have  you  really  persuaded  your- 
selves down  here  that  you  are  governed  by  your 
best  men  ?  " 

"  We  do  not  use  the  word  so  pedantically  down 
here.  By  an  aristocracy  we  mean  a  community 
of  gentlemen." 

"  And,  pronouncing  it  so  emphatically,  you  of 
course  use  the  word  gentleman  in  the  sense  it  had 
when  it  had  a  sense.  You  bear  in  mind  what  the 
gentleman  was  pledged  to,  when  to  be  called  one 
was  still  a  distinction.  '  To  eschew  sloth,'  '  to  detest 
all  pride  and  haughtiness,'  —  these  were  among  his 
obligations :  doubtless  they  are  of  those  most  strictly 
observed  in  your  community.  He  was  required 
'  to  be  true  and  just  in  word  and  dealing ' ;  '  to  be 
of  an  open  and  liberal  mind.'  You  find  these  con- 
ditions fulfilled  in  Rasey,  your  leading  man." 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  219 

"  Our  leading  man  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  your  leading  man.  "Whose  lead  did 
you  follow,  when  you  joined  in  worrying  Charles 
Shaler  out  of  your  community  of  gentlemen  ?  " 

Westlake  shrank.  He  was  conscious  that  he 
had  been  going  down  hill  ever  since  Shaler  left  the 
neighborhood.  The  hold  that  Rasey  took  of  him 
then  the  crafty  old  man  has  never  let  go. 

When  Westlake's  plantation  came  into  his  pos- 
session by  the  death  of  his  father,  he  undertook  to 
carry  it  on  himself,  and  has  been  supposed  to  do  so 
ever  since.  It  was  carried  on  well  from  the  time 
that  Senator  was  old  enough  to  take  charge ;  but 
with  his  disappearance  disappeared  all  the  credit 
and  all  the  comfort  his  good  management  had  se- 
cured to  his  master.  Westlake  needed  some  one 
to  lean  on,  and  Rasey  was  ready  to  take  advantage 
of  this  necessity.  His  ascendancy  was.  not  estab- 
lished all  at  once.  It  is  only  during  the  last  year 
that  it  has  been  perfected.  In  the  beginning,  he 
gave  just  a  touch  of  advice  and  withdrew  ;  showed 
himself  again  at  discreet  intervals,  gradually  short- 
ened ;  but,  all  the  time,  was  casting  about  his 
victim  the  singly  almost  impalpable  threads  of  his 
deadly  thraldom,  until  they  had  formed  a  coil  which 
forbade  even  an  effort  after  freedom.  Westlake  had 
put  no  overseer  between  himself  and  his  people; 
but  he  had,  without  well  knowing  how  it  came 


220  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

about,  set  a  very  hard  one  over  both.  He  found 
the  indulgences  on  his  plantation  diminished,  the 
tasks  more  rigidly  enforced,  the  holidays  fewer. 
The  punishments,  which  were  before  sometimes 
capriciously  severe,  but  more  often  threatened  and 
remitted,  he  was  now  expected  to  carry  out  with 
the  inflexibility  of  fate.  He  has  found  himself  re- 
duced to  plotting  with  his  servants  against  himself, 
—  to  aiding  them  in  breaking  or  evading  his  own 
laws  ;  reduced  —  worst  humiliation  of  all  —  to  or- 
dering, under  the  sharp  eye  and  sharp  voice  of  his 
officious  neighbor,  the  infliction  of  chastisement  for 
neglect  which  he  himself  had  authorized  or  con- 
nived at. 

All  came  of  that  unhappy  Christmas  I  have  told 
you  of.  If  Westlake  could  only  have  been  silent, 
the  simple  plot  devised  by  Senator  would  have 
worked  perfectly.  All  the  neighborhood  would 
have  respected  a  secret  that  was  its  own.  But 
Westlake  could  not  be  silent ;  he  was  too  uneasy. 
It  was  not  long  before  the  culprit's  escape  and  his 
master's  part  in  it  were  more  than  surmised.  In 
view  of  the  effect  of  such  a  transaction  on  the  ser- 
vile imagination,  Westlake's  weakness  was  ignored 
by  common  consent ;  but  it  was  not  the  less  incum- 
bent upon  him  to  reinstate  himself  in  opinion  on 
the  first  opportunity.  The  opportunity  was  offered 
by  the  storm  then  brewing  against  Shaler. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  221 

Westlake's  sufferings  are,  happily  for  him,  inter- 
mittent. Rasey  is  away  from  the  neighborhood  one 
month  out  of  every  three,  looking  after  the  estates 
of  yet  more  unlucky  vassals,  —  his  through  debt,  and 
not  from  simple  weakness.  During  these  intervals, 
Westlake  takes  his  ease  with  his  people,  as  thought- 
less as  they  of  consequences  no  more  within  his 
ability  to  avert  than  theirs.  He  has  lately  had  an 
unusual  respite.  Rasey  has  been  confined  to  the 
house  by  an  illness,  —  the  first  of  his  life. 

I  do  not  know  how  far  Dr.  Borrow  is  aware 
of  Westlake's  humiliations  ;  and  Westlake,  I  think, 
does  not  know.  When  he  was  able  to  speak  again, 
he  sheltered  himself  under  a  question. 

"Do  you  know  Rasey  ?  " 

"  He  is  owner  of  the  plantation  which  lies  south 
of  yours  and  Shaler's,  larger  than  both  together." 

"  His  plantation  ;  —  but  do  you  know  Mm  ?  " 

"  Root  and  branch.  But  who  does  not  know 
him,  that  knows  anybody  here  ?  In  the  next  gen- 
eration his  history  may  be  lost  in  his  fortune,  but 
it  is  extant  yet.  His  father  was  overseer  on  a 
Georgia  plantation,  from  which  he  sucked  the  mar- 
row :  his  employer's  grandchildren  are  crackers  and 
clay-eaters  ;  his  are  —  of  your  community." 

"  Not  exactly." 

"  Strike  out  all  who  do  not  yet  belong  to  it,  and 
all  who  have  ceased  to  have  a  full  claim  to  belong 
to  it,  and  what  have  you  left  ?  " 


222  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

"  Do  you  know  old  Rasey  personally  ?  Have 
you  ever  seen  him  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  him." 

"  Lately  ?  I  hear  that  a  great  change  has  come 
over  him.  He  has  lost  his  elder  son." 

"You  might  say  his  only  one.  He  turned  the 
other  out  of  doors  years  ago,  and  has  had  no  word 
of  him  since.  The  old  man  has  a  daughter;  but 
her  husband  has  challenged  him  to  shoot  at  sight. 
He  has  lost  his  partner  and  heir,  and,  in  the 
course  of  Nature,  cannot  himself  hold  on  many 
years  longer.  If  a  way  could  be  found  of  taking 
property  over  to  the  other  side,  he  might  be  con- 
soled. The  old  Gauls  used  to  manage  it :  they 
made  loans  on  condition  of  repayment  in  the  other 
world ;  but  I  doubt  whether  Rasey's  faith  is  of  force 
to  let  him  find  comfort  in  such  a  transaction. 

"  I  had  to  see  him  about  a  matter  of  business 
which  had  been  intrusted  to  me.  I  went  there  the 
day  I  left  you.  If  I  had  known  how  it  was  with 
him,  I  should  have  tried  to  find  a  deputy.  It  is 
an  awful  sight,  a  man  who  never  had  compassion 
needing  it,  a  man  who  never  felt  sympathy  claim- 
ing and  repelling  it  in  one. 

"  When  I  entered  the  room,  where  he  was  sitting 
alone,  he  looked  up  at  me  with  a  glare  like  a  tiger- 
cat's.  He  was  tamed  for  the  moment  by  the  men- 
tion of  my  errand,  which  was  simply  to  make  him 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  223 

a  payment.  He  counted  the  money  carefully, 
locked  it  up,  and  gave  me  a  receipt.  Then  he 
began  to  talk  to  me,  or  rather  to  himself  before  me. 
I  could  acquiesce  in  all  he  said.  I  knew  what 
Giles  Rasey  was,  and  understood  that  the  loss  of 
such  a  son,  to  such  a  father,  was  irreparable. 

"  '  Another  self!  another  self! '  he  repeated,  until 
I  hardly  knew  whether  to  pity  him  more  for  having 
had  a  son  so  like  himself,  or  for  having  him  no 
longer.  It  was  an  injustice  that  he  felt  himself  suf- 
fering,—  a  bitter  injustice.  He  had  counted  on  this 
son  as  his  successor,  and  the  miscalculation  was  one 
with  which  he  was  not  chargeable.  '  Not  thirty- 
five  !  I  am  past  sixty,  and  a  young  man  yet !  My 
father  lived  to  be  ninety  ! ' 

"  His  rage  against  this  wrong  which  had  been 
done  him  was  aggravated  by  another  which  he  had 
done  himself,  a  weakness  into  which  he  had  been 
led  by  his  son,  —  the  only  one,  probably,  in  which 
they  had  ever  been  partners.  The  son  had  a  slave 
whose  ability  made  him  valuable,  whose  probity 
made  him  invaluable. 

"  '  I  gave  him  to  Giles  myself,'  said  the  old  man. 
'  He  was  such  as  you  don't  find  one  of  in  a  thou- 
sand ;  no,  not  in  ten  thousand.  I  could  have  had 
any  money  for  him,  if  money  could  have  bought 
him.  It  could  n't.  I  gave  him  to  Giles.' 

"  Giles,  on  the  death-bed  where  he  found  him- 


224  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

self  with  very  little  warning,  exacted  of  his  father 
a  promise  that  this  man  should  be  made  free. 

" '  What  could  I  refuse  him  then  ? '  asked  old 
Rasey. 

"  The  man  in  whose  behalf  the  promise  was 
made,  and  who  was  present  when  it  was  made,  took 
it  in  earnest. 

"  '  A  fellow  whom  we  had  trusted ! '  cried  the  old 
man.  '  A  fellow  in  whose  attachment  we  had  be- 
lieved !  We  have  let  him  carry  away  and  pay  large 
sums  of  money  for  us ;  have  even  let  him  go  into 
Free  States  to  pay  them,  and  he  always  came  back 
faithfully !  You  may  know  these  people  a  life  long 
and  not  learn  them  out !  A  fellow  whom  we  had 
trusted ! ' 

"  The  fellow  bade  good-day  as  soon  as  the  funeral 
services  were  over.  His  master  was  sufficiently 
himself  to  surmise  his  purpose  and  to  make  an 
attempt  to  baffle  it.  But  the  intended  freedman 
was  too  agile  for  him  ;  he  disappeared  without  even 
claiming  his  manumission-papers.  Imagine  Rasey's 
outraged  feelings !  It  was  like  the  Prince  of  Hell 
in  the  old  legend,  complaining  of  the  uncivil  alacrity 
with  which  Lazarus  obeyed  the  summons  to  the 
upper  air :  — '  He  was  not  to  be  held,  but,  giving 
himself  a  shake,  with  every  sign  of  malice,  imme- 
diately he  went  away.' ' 

"  So  Rasey  has  lost  Syphax !    he  has  lost  Sy- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  225 

phax  !  "  repeated  Westlake,  thoughtfully.  "  Rasey 
is  not  a  good  master,  but  he  was  good  to  him.  It 
was  hard,  even  for  Rasey." 

"  Rasey  has  lost  Syphax,  and  Syphax  has  found 
him,"  said  the  Doctor,  dryly. 

"  You  do  not  understand.  You  see  in  the  rup- 
ture of  these  ties  only  a  loss  of  service  to  the  mas- 
ter. We  feel  it  to  be  something  more." 

"  The  human  heart  is  framed  sensible  to  kind- 
ness ;  that  you  should  have  an  attachment  for  the 
man  who  devotes  his  life  to  yours  without  return 
has  nothing  miraculous  for  me.  I  can  believe  that 
even  Rasey  is  capable  of  feeling  the  loss  of  what 
has  been  useful  to  him." 

"  No,  you  do  not  understand  the  relation  between 
us  and  this  affectionate  subject  race." 

"  Frankly,  I  do  not.  I  cannot  enter  into  it  on 
either  side.  If  I  were  even  as  full  of  the  milk  of 
human  kindness  as  we  are  bound  to  suppose  these 
soft  -  tempered  foreigners  to  be,  it  seems  to  me  I 
should  still  like  to  choose  my  beneficiaries  ;  and, 
in  your  place,  I  should  have  quite  another  taste  in 
benefactors.  When  I  indue  myself  in  imagination 
with  a  black  skin,  and  try  to  think  and  feel  conform- 
ably, I  find  my  innate  narrowness  too  much  for 
me  ;  I  cannot  disguise  from  myself  that  I  should 
prefer  to  lavish  my  benefits  on  my  own  flesh  and 
blood.  Resuming  my  personality,  I  can  as  little 
15 


226  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

divest  myself  in  fancy  of  my  pride  of  race.  If  I 
must  accept  a  state  of  dependence,  I  would  take  the 
bounty  of  a  white  man,  hard  and  scanty  though  it 
might  be,  rather  than  receive  luxurious  daily  bread 
at  the  hands  of  blacks." 

"  Borrow,  you  always  had  the  knack  of  making 
a  fellow  feel  uncomfortable.  I  would  rather  talk 
with  Dudley  than  with  you.  I  do  not  see  that  you 
are  any  better  friend  to  our  institutions  than  he  is." 

"A  friend  to  slavery?  Distrust  the  man  not 
born  and  bred  to  it  who  calls  himself  one  ! 

"  I  suppose  I  am  as  much  of  a  pro-slavery  man 
as  you  will  easily  find  in  New  England,  —  for  an 
unambitious,  private  man,  I  mean.  Slavery  does 
not  mean  for  me  power  or  place.  What  does 
slavery  mean  for  me  when  I  oppose  its  opponents  ? 
It  means  you,  Westlake,  my  old  schoolmate,  —  you 
and  your  wife  and  children.  It  means  Harvey  and 
his  wife  and  children.  I  have  the  weakness  to  care 
more  for  you  than  for  your  slaves.  1^  cannot  resolve 
to  see  you  deprived  of  comforts  and  luxuries  that 
use  has  made  necessary  to  you,  that  they  may  rise 
to  wants  they  have  no  sense  of  as  yet.  As  to  your 
duties  to  your  humble  neighbors,  and  the  way  you 
fulfil  them,  that  account  is  kept  between  you  and 
your  Maker.  He  has  not  made  me  a  judge  or  a 
ruler  over  you." 

Westlake's  deep  red  deepened.     "  I  leave  relig- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  227 

ious  matters  to  those  whose  charge  it  is.  I  have 
been  instructed  to  hold  the  place  which  has  been 
awarded  me,  without  asking  why  I  have  been  made 
to  differ  from  others.  And  the  teaching  which  is 
good  enough  for  me  is,  I  suppose,  good  enough  for 
my  servants.  As  for  the  rest,  we  know  that  our 
people  are  as  well  off  as  the  same  class  in  any  part 
of  the  world,  not  excepting  New  England." 

"  I  dare  say  such  a  class  would  be  no  better  off 
there  than  here.  But  come  and  learn  for  yourself 
how  it  is  there." 

"  I  could  not  learn  there  how  to  live  here.  And 
I  do  not  pretend  that  we  can  understand  you  better 
than  you  can  us.  But,  Borrow,  you  are  hard  to 
suit.  You  twit  us  with  our  waste  and  improvi- 
dence, and  yet  you  are  not  better  pleased  with 
Rasey,  who  follows  gain  like  a  New-Englander." 

"  Rasey  follows  gain  from  the  blind  impulse  of 
covetousness.  The  New-Englander's  zeal  is  ac- 
cording to  knowledge.  Rasey's  greed  is  the  inher- 
ited hunger  of  a  precarious  race.  The  New-Eng- 
lander thrives  because  he  has  always  thriven.  He 
has  in  his  veins  '  the  custom  of  prosperity.' 

"  Fuller  tells  us,  that,  in  his  time,  '  a  strict  in- 
quiry after  the  ancient  gentry  of  England '  would 
have  found  '  most  of  them  in  the  class  moderately 
mounted  above  the  common  level ' ;  the  more  ambi- 
tious having  suffered  ruin  in  the  national  turmoils, 


228  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

while  these  even  -  minded  men,  '  through  God's 
blessing  on  their  moderation,  have  continued  in 
their  condition.'  It  was  from  this  old  stock  that 
the  planters  of  New  England  were  chiefly  derived, 
mingled  with  them  some  strong  scions  of  loftier 
trees." 

"  Do  we  not  know  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
birth  in  New  England  ?  There,  even  if  a  man  had 
ancestry,  he  would  not  dare  to  think  himself  the 
better  for  it." 

"  Disabuse  yourself ;  the  New-Englander  is  per- 
fectly human  in  this  respect,  and  only  a  very  little 
wriser  than  the  rest  of  the  world.  But  he  disap- 
proves waste,  even  of  so  cheap  a  thing  as  words  : 
he  does  not  speak  of  his  blood,  because  his  blood 
speaks  for  itself. 

"  Rasey  thinks  whatever  is  held  by  others-  to  be  so 
much  withheld  from  him.  To  make  what  is  theirs 
his  is  all  his  aim.  He  has  no  conception  of  a 
creative  wealth,  of  a  diffusive  prosperity.  To  live 
and  make  live  is  an  aristocratic  maxirn.  Rasey,  and 
such  as  he,  grudge  almost  the  subsistence  of  their 
human  tools.  With  the  New-Englander,  parsimony 
is  not  economy.  The  aristocratic  household  law  is 
a  liberal  one,  and  it  is  his.  He  lives  up  to  his  in- 
come as  conscientiously  as  within  it.  Rasey  and 
his  like  think  what  is  theirs,  enjoyed  by  another, 
wasted ;  —  they  think  it  wasted,  enjoyed  by  them- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  229 

selves.  The  New-Englander's  rule  of  personal  in- 
dulgence is  the  same  with  that  given  to  the  Persian 
prince  Ghilan  by  his  father,  the  wise  Kyekyawus, 
who,  warning  him  against  squandering,  adds,  '  It 
is  not  squandering  to  spend  for  anything  which 
can  be  of  real  use  to  thee  either  in  this  world  or 
the  next.' 

"  Together  with  the  inherited  habit  of  property, 
the  well-descended  have  and  transmit  an  inherited 
knowledge  of  the  laws  which  govern  its  acquisition 
and  its  maintenance :  laws  older  than  legislation ; 
as  old  as  property  itself;  as  old  as  man;  a  part  of 
his  primitive  wisdom  ;  always  and  everywhere  the 
common  lore  of  the  established  and  endowed.  If 
Rasey  had  inherited  or  imbibed  this  knowledge, 
perhaps  he  would  have  been  more  cautious.  '  Be- 
ware of  unjust  gains,'  says  an  Eastern  sage,  an 
ancient  member  of  our  Aryan  race  ;  '  for  it  is  the 
nature  of  such,  not  only  to  take  flight  themselves, 
but  to  bear  off  all  the  rest  with  them.'  'Do  not 
think,'  it  is  set  down  in  the  book  of  Kabus,  a  com- 
pendium of  Persian  practical  wisdom,  '  Do  not  think 
even  a  good  use  of  what  has  been  ill  acquired  can 
make  it  thine.  It  will  assuredly,  leave  thee,  and 
only  thy  sin  will  remain  to  thee.' 

"  The  well-born  would  not  dare  to  amass  a  for- 
tune by  such  means  as  Rasey  uses  ;  amassed,  they 
would  not  expose  it  to  such  hazards.  '  The  same 


FIFTEEN  DATS. 

word  in  the  Greek '  —  I  am  citing  now  an  English 
worthy,  the  contemporary  of  our  New-England  fa- 
thers— '  The  same  word  in  the  Greek — tos —  means 
both  rust  and  poison ;  and  a  strong  poison  is  made 
of  the  rust  of  metals  ;  but  none  more  venomous 
than  the  rust  of  the  laborer's  wages  detained  in  his 
employer's  purse  :  it  will  infect  and  corrode  a  whole 
estate.' 

"  A  man's  descent  is  written  on  his  life  yet  more 
plainly  than  on  his  features.  In  New  England  you 
shall  see  a  youth  come  up  from  the  country  to  the 
metropolis  of  his  State  with  all  his  worldly  goods 
upon  his  back.  Twenty  years  later  you  «hall  find 
him  as  much  at  ease  in  the  position  he  has  retaken 
rather  than  gained,  as  he  was  in  the  farm-house 
where  he  was  born,  or  on  the  dusty  road  he  trudged 
over  to  the  scene  of  his  fortunes.  His  house  is  el- 
egant, not  fine ;  it  is  furnished  with  paintings  not 
bought  on  the  advice  of  the  picture-dealer,  with  a 
library  not  ordered  complete  from  the  bookseller. 
He  is  simple  in  his  personal  habits,  laborious  still, 
severe  to  himself,  lenient  and  liberal  to  those  who 
depend  upon  him,  munificent  in  his  public  benefac- 
tions, in  his  kindly  and  modest  patronage.  If  he 
enters  public  life,  it  is  not  because  he  wants  a  place 
there,  but  because  there  is  a  place  that  wants  him. 
He  takes  it  to  work,  and  not  to  shine ;  lays  it  down 
when  he  can,  or  when  he  must ;  and  takes  hold  of 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  231 

the  nearest  duty,  great  or  small  as  may  be,  with  the 
same  zeal  and  conscience.  Such  a  man  is  called  a 
self-made  man.  He  is  what  ages  of  culture  and 
highest  discipline  have  made  him,  —  ages  of  respon- 
sibility and  thought  for  others. 

"  Stealthy  winning  and  sterile  hoarding  are  the 
marks  of  a  degraded  and  outlawed  caste.  When 
these  tendencies  show  themselves  in  a  member  of 
an  honest  race,  they  have  come  down  from  some 
forgotten  interloper.  The  Raseys  are  the  true  rep- 
resentatives of  the  transported  wretches  who,  and 
whose  progeny,  have  been  a  dead  weight  upon  the 
States  originally  afflicted  with  them,  and  upon 'those 
into  which  they  have  wandered  out.  In  their  native 
debasement,  they  furnish  material  for  usurpation  to 
work  upon  and  with  ;  raised  here  and  there  into 
fitful  eminence,  they  infect  the  class  they  intrude 
upon  with  meannesses  not  its  own. 

"  Thomas  Dudley,  writing  to  England  from  New 
England  in  its  earliest  days,  when,  as  he  frankly 
owns,  it  offered  '  little  to  be  enjoyed  and  much  to  be 
endured,'  is  explicit  as  to  the  class  of  men  he  and 
his  colleagues  would  have  join  them.  He  invites 
only  godly  men  of  substance.  Such,  he  says,  '  can- 
not dispose  of  themselves  and  their  estates  more 
to  God's  glory.'  Those  who  would  '  come  to  plant 
for  worldly  ends '  he  dissuades  altogether ;  for  '  the 
poorer  sort '  it  was  '  not  time  yet.'  As  for  reck- 


232  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

less  adventurers  and  the  destitute  idle,  who  sought 
the  New  World  for  gold  or  an  indolent  subsistence, 
when  these,  '  seeing  no  other  means  than  by  their 
labor  to  feed  themselves,'  went  back  discouraged, 
or  off  to  find  some  more  indulgent  plantation,  the 
colony  felt  itself  '  lightened,  not  weakened.' 

"  The  chief  distinctive  mark  of  high  race  is  the 
quality  the  Romans  called  fortitude,  —  a  word  of 
larger  meaning  than  we  commonly  intend  by  ours 
derived  from  it :  that  strength  of  soul,  namely, 
which  gives  way  as  little  before  work  as  before 
danger  or  under  suffering.  A  Roman  has  defined 
this  Roman  fortitude  as  the  quality  which  enables 
a  man  fearlessly  to  obey  the  highest  law,  whether 
by  enduring  or  by  achieving. 

"Another  mark  of  high  race  is  its  trust  in  itself. 
The  early  heads  of  New  England  did  not  try  to 
secure  a  position  to  their  children.  They  knew 
that  blood  finds  its  level  just  as  certainly  as  water 
does.  Degenerate  sons  they  disowned  in  advance. 

"  Westlake,  you  ought  to  know  New  England 
better.  Even  if  your  memory  did  not  prompt  you 
to  do  it  justice,  there  ought  to  be  a  voice  to  answer 
for  it  in  your  heart.  But  I  find  ancestry  is  very 
soon  lost  in  the  mists  of  antiquity  down  here.  You 
come  early  into  the  advantages  of  a  mythical  back- 
ground. Must  I  teach  you  your  own  descent?  " 

"  I  thank  you.     I  am  acquainted  with  it.     My 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  233 

great-grandfather  was  an  Englishman,  —  a  man  of 
some  consideration,  as  I  have  been  informed.  He 
went  over  to  Massachusetts  ;  but  my  grandfather 
left  it,  as  soon  as  he  was  of  age,  for  a  newer  State, 
where  he  could  enjoy  greater  freedom." 

"  Your  great-grandfather  came  from  England  to 
New  England,  as  you  say.  He  fixed  himself  in 
that  part  of  our  Massachusetts  town  of  Ipswich 
which  used  to  go  by  the  name  of  *  The  Hamlet.' 
What  he  was  before  he  came  out  I  do  not  know ; 
but  I  suppose  he  brought  credentials,  for  he  married 
his  wife  from  a  family  both  old  and  old-fashioned. 
Your  grandfather,  Simeon  Symonds  Westlake,  at 
seventeen  found  the  Hamlet  too  narrow  for  him, 
and  the  paternal,  or  perhaps  the  maternal,  rule  too 
strict.  He  walked  over  into  New  Hampshire  one 
morning,  without  mentioning  that  he  was  not  to  be 
back  for  dinner.  New  Hampshire  did  not  suit  him: 
he  went  to  Rhode  Island ;  then  tried  New  York 
for  a  year  or  so :  it  did  not  answer.  His  father 
died,  and  Simeon  made  experiment  of  life  at  home 
again,  but  only  again  to  give  it  up  in  disgust. 
Finally  he  emigrated  to  Georgia,  taking  with  him 
a  little  money  and  a  great  deal  of  courage ;  invested 
both  in  a  small  farm  which  was  soon  a  large  planta- 
tion ;  added  a  yet  larger  by  marriage ;  died,  a  great 
landholder  and  a  great  slaveholder. 

"  Simeon  —  I  must  call  him  by  that  name,  his- 


234  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

torical  for  me,  although  I  know  that  the  first  initial 
disappeared  from  his  signature  after  his  marriage  — 
Simeon  left  two  sons,  Reginald  and  Edwin.  He 
had  the  ambition  of  founding  a  dynasty ;  so  left  his 
whole  estate  to  the  elder,  yet  with  certain  restric- 
tions and  conditions,  which,  doubtless,  he  had  good 
reasons  for  imposing,  and  which  the  intended  heir 
lost  no  time  in  justifying.  By  some  law  of  inheri- 
tance which  statutes  cannot  supersede  nor  wills  an- 
nul, this  son  of  a  father  in  whom  no  worst  enemy 
could  have  detected  a  trace  of  the  Puritan,  was 
born  in  liberal  Georgia,  in  the  last  half  of  the  en- 
lightened eighteenth  century,  as  arrogant  a  bigot 
and  as  flaming  a  fanatic  as  if  he  had  come  over  in 
the  Mayflower.  He  refused  his  father's  bequest,  on 
the  ground  that  God  has  given  man  dominion  over 
the  fish  of  the  sea,  and  over  the  fowls  of  the  air, 
and  over  the  cattle,  —  but  none  over  his  fellow-man, 
except  such  as  he  may  win  through  affection  or 
earn  by  service.  He  went  back  to  New  England, 
where  he  belonged.  I  knew  a  son  of  his,  a  respect- 
able mason.  You  need  not  blush  for  him,  though 
he  was  your  own  cousin  and  worked  with  his  hands. 
He  was  never  conscious  of  any  cause  for  shame, 
himself,  unless  it  were  the  sin  of  his  slaveholding 
grandfather;  and  that  did  not  weigh  on  him,  for 
he  believed  the  entail  of  the  curse  cut  off  with  that 
of  the  rest  of  the  inheritance. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  235 

"  If  I  have  grieved  the  shade  of  Simeon  by  pro- 
nouncing that  rejected  name,  1  will  soothe  it  again 
by  stating  that  this  name  has  not  been  perpetuated 
by  his  New-England  descendants.  That  branch  of 
his  house  has  already  a  third  Reginald,  about  a  year 
younger  than  yours.  He  is  now  a  Freshman  in 
college.  You  may  hear  of  him  some  day." 

"  He  is  in  college  ?  That  is  well.  He  has,  then, 
recovered,  or  will  recover,  the  rank  of  a  gentle- 
man ?  " 

"  No  need  of  that,  if  he  ever  had  a  claim  to  it. 
You,  who  know  so  much  about  birth,  should  know 
that  its  rights  are  ineffaceable.  This  was  well  un- 
derstood by  those  whom  it  concerned,  in  the  time  of 
our  first  ancestors.  We  have  it  on  high  heraldic 
authority  of  two  hundred  years  ago,  that  a  gentle- 
man has  a  right  so  to  be  styled  in  legal  proceedings, 
'  although  he  be  a  husbandman.'  '  For,  although  a 
gentleman  go  to  the  plough  and  common  labor  for 
a  maintenance,  yet  he  is  a  gentleman.'  The  New- 
England  founders  had  no  fear  of  derogating  in  tak- 
ing hold  of  anything  that  needed  to  be  done ;  had 
no  fear  that  their  children  could  derogate  in  follow- 
ing any  calling  for  which  their  tastes  and  their 
abilities  qualified  them.  Carrying  to  it  the  ideas, 
feelings,  and  manners  of  the  gentle  class,  they  could 
ennoble  the  humblest  occupation  ;  it  could  not  lower 
them. 


236  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

"  It  is  out  of  this  respect  that  good  blood  has  for 
itself,  that  the  tru^  New-Englander,  whatever  his 
station,  is  not  ashamed  of  a  humbler  relative.  You 
are  amazed  down  here  at  the  hardihood  of  a  North- 
era  man  who  speaks  coolly  of  a  cousin  of  his  who  is 
a  blacksmith,  it  may  be,  or  a  small  farmer ;  and  you 
bless  yourselves  inwardly  for  your  greater  refine- 
ment. But  you  are  English,  you  say,  not  New- 
English. 

"  When  I  was  in  Perara,  dining  with  one  of  the 
great  folks  there,  I  happened  to  inquire  after  a 
cousin  of  his,  an  unlucky  fellow,  who,  after  trying 
his  fortune  in  half  the  cities  of  the  Union,  had  had 
the  indiscretion  to  settle  down  in  a  very  humble 
business,  within  a  stone's  throw  of  his  wealthy 
namesake.  I  had  known  him  formerly,  and  could 
not  think  of  leaving  Perara  without  calling  on 
him.  To  my  surprise,  my  question  threw  the  fam- 
ily into  visible  confusion.  They  gave  me  his  ad- 
dress, indeed,  but  in  a  way  as  if  they  excused 
themselves  for  knowing  it.  This  may  be  English, 
but  it  is  not  Old-English. 

"  In  the  Old  England  which  we  may  call  ours,  — 
for  it  was  before,  and  not  long  before,  she  founded 
the  New,  —  a  laboring  man  came  to  the  Earl  of 
Huntingdon,  Lieutenant  of  Leicestershire,  to  pray 
for  the  discharge  of  his  only  son,  the  staff  of  his 
age,  who  had  been  'pressed  into  the  wars.'  The 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  237 

Earl  inquires  the  name  of  his  petitioner.  The  old 
man  hesitates,  fearing  to  be  presumptuous,  for  his 
family  name  is  the  same  with  that  of  the  nobleman 
he  addresses ;  but  being  urged,  he  takes  courage 
to  pronounce  it.  '  Cousin  Hastings,'  said  the  Earl 
then,  '  my  kinsman,  your  son,  shall  not  be  pressed.' 
This  '  modesty  in  the  poor  man  and  courtesy  in  the 
great  man '  were  found  in  that  day  '  conformable  to 
the  gentle  blood  in  both.'  Those  who  know  New 
England  know  that  this  absence  of  assumption  and 
of  presumption,  this  modest  kindliness  and  this  dig- 
nified reserve,  are  characteristic  there,  testifying  to 
the  sources  from  which  it  derives. 

"  I  am  a  cosmopolite.  I  could  never  see  why  I 
should  think  the  better  or  the  worse  of  a  place,  for 
my  happening  to  draw  my  first  breath  there.  I 
am  of  the  company  of  the  truth-seekers.  A  fact, 
though  it  were  an  ugly  one,  is  of  more  worth  to 
me  than  a  thousand  pleasantest  fancies.  But  a  fact 
is  not  the  less  one  for  being  agreeable :  the  'ex- 
tension of  a  fine  race  is  an  agreeable  fact  to  a 
naturalist. 

"  The  earlier  emigrations  to  New  England  were 
emphatically  aristocratic  emigrations.  Their  aim 
was  to  found  precisely  what  you  claim  to  show 
here.  Their  aim  was  to  found  a  community  of 
gentlemen,  —  a  community,  that  is  to  say,  religious, 
just,  generous,  courteous.  They  proposed  equality, 


238  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

but  equality  on  a  high  plane.  Their  work  has  been 
hindered  by  its  very  success.  The  claimants  for 
adoption  have  crowded  in  faster  than  full  provision 
could  be  made  for  them.  They  cannot  instantly 
be  assimilated.  Their  voices  sometimes  rise  above 
those  of  the  true  children.  But  New  England  is 
there,  strong  and  tranquil.  Her  heart  has  room 
for  all  that  ask  a  place  in  it.  She  welcomes  these 
orphans  to  it  motherly,  and  will  make  them  all 
thoroughly  her  own  with  time. 

"  Come  to  us,  Westlake.  I  have  planned  out  a 
tour  for  you." 

And  Dr.  Borrow,  tracing  the  route  he  had 
marked  out  for  his  friend,  sketched  the  country  it 
led  through,  comparing  what  came  before  us  with 
reminiscences  of  other  travels.  No  contrasts  here 
of  misery  with  splendor  rebuke  a  thoughtless  ad- 
miration. Nowhere  the  picturesqueness  of  ruin  and 
squalor ;  everywhere  the  lovely,  living  beauty  of 
healthfulness,  dignity,  and  order. 

With  what  a  swell  of  feeling  does  the  distant 
New-Englander  listen  to  accounts  of  family  life  in 
the  old  home  !  How  dear  every  detail,  making  that 
real  again  which  had  come  to  be  like  a  sweet, 
shadowy  dream  ! 

Dr.  Borrow  led  us  through  the  beautiful  street 
'of  a  New-England  village,  under  the  Gothic  arches 
of  its  religious  elms.  He  did  not  fear  to  throw 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  239 

open  for  us  the  willing  door.  He  showed  us  the 
simple,  heartsome  interior,  with  its  orderly  ease, 
its  unambitious  hospitality,  its  refined  enjoyments. 
Other  travellers  have  drawn  for  us  other  pictures. 
They  have  told  us  of  a  pomp  and  state  which  have 
reconciled  us  to  our  rudeness.  But  Dr.  Borrow 
sketched  the  New-England  home,  such  as  we  know 
it  by  tradition,  such  as  it  still  exists  among  those 
who  are  content  to  live  as  their  fathers  lived  before 
them. 

"  Hold  on,  Borrow  !  "  cried  Westlake ;  "you  don't 
suppose  you  are  going  to  persuade  me  that  there 
is  neither  poverty  nor  overwork  in  New  England  ! 
I  have  heard,  and  I  think  I  have  seen,  that  there 
are  hard  lives  lived  there,  —  harder  than  those  of 
our  slaves,  of  my  slaves,  for  example  ;  —  and  that 
not  by  foreigners,  who,  you  may  say,  are  not  up  to 
the  mark  yet,  but  by  Americans  born  and  bred." . 

"  There  are  very  hard  lives  lived'  there.  The 
human  lot  is  checkered  there  as  everywhere. 
Death  sometimes  arrests  a  man  midway  in  his 
course  and  leads  him  off,  leaving  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren to  struggle  along  the  road  they  never  knew 
was  rough  before.  It  happened  thus  to  your 
Cousin  Reginald.  His  wife  and  children  were  thus 
left.  You  are  right.  His  son,  the  boy  I  told  you 
of,  is  as  much  a  slave  as  any  of  yours :  almost  as 
poorly  fed,  and  twice  as  hardly  worked.  He  lives 


240  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

at  a  distance  from  his  college,  to  have  a  cheaper 
room;  his  meals  he  prepares  himself; — no  great 
fatigue  this,  to  be  sure,  for  they  are  frugal,  and  he 
contents  himself  with  two.  In  what  ought  to  be 
his  vacation,  he  delves  away  at  his  books  harder 
than  ever,  and  is  besides  a  hewer  of  wood  and  a 
drawer  of  water,  —  all  without  wages.  His  only 
pay  is  his  mother's  pride  in  him,  and  the  joy  of 
sometimes  calling  back  the  old  smiles  to  her  face." 

"  How  did  he  get  to  college  ?  How  does  he  stay 
there,  if  he  has  nothing  ?  " 

"  He  has  less  than  nothing.  To  go  to  college, 
he  has  incurred  debts,  —  debts  for  which  he  has 
pledged  himself,  body  and  soul.  He  was  ten  when 
his  father  died.  His  sister  was  sixteen.  She  as- 
sumed the  rights  of  guardian  over  him,  kept  him 
up  to  his  work  at  school,  sent  him  to  college  when 
he  was  fourteen,  and  maintains  him  there. 

"  If  his  life  is  a  hard  one,  hers  is  not  easier. 
Every  morning  she  walks  nearly  three  miles  to  the 
school  she  teaches,  gives  her  day  there,  and  walks 
back  in  the  late  afternoon.  The  evening  she  passes 
in  sewincr,  a  book  on  the  table  before  her.  She 

O' 

catches  a  line  as  she  draws  out  her  thread,  and  fixes 
it  in  her  memory  with  the  setting  of  the  next  stitch. 
Besides  Reginald,  there  are  two  other  boys  to  make 
and  mend  for,  not  yet  so  mindful  of  the  cost  of 
clothes  as  he  has  learned  to  be  ;  and  she  has  her 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  241 

own  education  to  cany  on,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
little  community  among  whom  she  must  hold  her 
place-  as  one  who  has  nothing  left  to  learn. 

"  Her  mother  works  at  the  same  table,  evenly, 
continuously,  not  to  disturb  or  distract  by  haste 
or  casual  movement,  and  under  a  spell  of  silence, 
which  only  the  child  whose  first  subject  she  is  is 
privileged  to  break.  It  is  broken  from  time  to  time, 
—  the  study  being  suspended,  though  not  the  needle- 
work. These  intervals  are  filled  with  little,  happy 
confidences,  —  hopes,  and  dreams,  which  the  two 
cherish  apart  and  together,  and  whose  exchange, 
a  hundred  times  renewed,  never  loses  its  power  to 
refresh  and  reassure.  If  you  were  near  enough  to 
hear  the  emphatic  word  in  these  snatches  of  con- 
versation, be  sure  you  would  hear  '  Reginald.'  ' 

"  Do  you  know  them  so  well  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  may  have  spent  a  summer  in  the 
country  town  where  they  live.  Perhaps  it  has 
been  my  chance  some  evening  to  walk  by  the  little, 
old,  black  house  they  moved  into  after  their  father's 
death,  from  the  nice,  white,  green-blinded  one  he 
built  for  them,  and  the  astral  lamp  on  the  round 
table  may  have  lighted  for  me  the  tableau  I  am 
showing  you.  Our  heroine  works  and  studies  late, 
perhaps ;  but  she  must  not  the  less  be  up  early 
the  next  morning,  to  do  the  heavier  portion  of  the 
house-work  before  her  mother  is  stirring.  If  ever 

16 


242  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

you  hear  a  severe  tone  in  her  voice,  be  sure  the 
mother  has  been  encroaching  upon  the  daughter's 
prerogative  by  rising  first,  or  by  putting  her -hand 
to  some  forbidden  toil.  —  Well,  is  all  this  enough  ?. 
Not  for  Anna  Westlake.  There  is  a  music  lesson 
to  be  given,  before  she  sets  oft7  for  her  regular  day's 
work." 

"  Is  her  name  Anna  ?  "  —  Westlake  had  once  a 
sister  Anna,  whom  he  loved.  —  "  Is  she  pretty  ?  " 

"  She  might  have  been." 

"  Fair  hair  ?    Blue  eyes  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  a  true  Westlake  in  features  and  complex- 
ion ;  but  somewhat  thin  for  one  of  your  family,  as 
you  may  believe." 

"  Pale,  delicate  ?  " 

"  The  winds  of  heaven  have  visited  her  too 
roughly." 

«  Graceful  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  dare  to  say  Yes,  seeing  that  grace 
is  denied  to  New-England  women  ;  still  less  do  I 
dare  to  say  No,  remembering  how  I  have  seen  her 
taking  her  small  brothers  to  their  school,  on  the  way 
to  her  own,  making  believe  run  races  with  them,  to 
get  the  little  wilful  loiterers  over  the  ground  the 
quicker." 

"  Borrow,  it  is  a  hard  life  for  Anna  Westlake,  — 
for  my  cousin's  child." 

"  You  would  be  a  severe  taskmaster,  if  you  de- 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  243 

manded  of  a  slave  such  a  day's  work  as  hers.  Of 
a  slave !  He  would  be  insane  who  should  expect 
it  of  any  woman  who  had  not  the  developed  brain, 
the  steady  nerves,  the  abounding  vitality  of  the 
born  aristocrat. 

"  But  how  is  Reginald  ever  going  to  pay.  his  debt 
to  this  sister  ?  Do  you  think  she  will  be  satisfied 
with  anything  short  of  seeing  him  President  ?  Who 
knows  but  she  looks  for  more  yet  ?  The  Puritan 
stamp  is  as  strong  on  her  as  on  her  grandfather. 
Who  knows  but  she  looks  to  see  him  one  of  the 
lights  of  the  world,  —  one  of  the  benefactors  of  his 
race,  —  a  discoverer  in  science,  —  a  reformer  ?  Here 
are  responsibilities  for  a  boy  to  set  out  under !  " 

"  For  the  boys,  let  them  rough  it ;  I  have  noth- 
ing to  say.  But,  Borrow,  when  you  go  back,  tell 
Anna  Westlake  there  is  a  home  for  her  here,  when- 
ever she  is  ready  to  come  and  take  it." 

"  I  will  tell  her,  if  you  will,  that  her  cousins 
here  wish  to  have  news  of  her,  and  are  ready  to 
love  her  and  hers.  But  propose  to  her  a  life  of  de- 
pendence !  You  must  get  a  bolder  man  to  do  that 
errand." 

"  It  should  not  be  a  life  of  dependence.  She 
may  surely  do  for  her  own  kindred  what  she  does 
for  a  pack  of  village  children.  She  should  be  an 
elder  sister  to  my  girls.  Why,  Borrow,  I  should 
like  to  have  her  here.  I  don't  put  it  in  the  form 


244  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

of  a  favor  to  her.  Her  being  here  would  be 
a  great  pleasure  and  a  great  good  to  my  little 
Fanny." 

"  And  her  own  brothers  ?  " 

"  She  should  be  able  to  do  for  them  all  she  does 
now." 

"  All  she  does  now !  Do  you  know  what  that 
is?" 

"  She  should  be  able  to  do  more  than  she  does 
now.  Reginald  should  live  as  he  ought." 

"  He  shall  have  three  good  meals  a  day,  and 
cooked  for  him :  is  that  it  ?  And  the  two  little 
boys?" 

"  They  should  be  as  much  better  off  as  he.  I  do 
not  forget  that  I  have  the  whole  inheritance,  which 
might  have  been  divided." 

"  Yes,  the  means  for  their  material  bread  might 
be  supplied  by  another ;  but  it  is  from  her  own  soul 
that  she  feeds  theirs.  And  then,  homage,  West- 
lake, —  homage,  that  sweetest  draught  !  Do  you 
suppose  it  is  least  sweet  when  most  deserved  ? " 

"  I  have  nothing,  then,  to  offer  which  could  tempt 
her  ?  "  asked  Westlake,  a  little  crestfallen. 

"  You  have  nothing  to  offer,  the  world  has  noth- 
ing to  offer,  which  could  tempt  her  to  resign  her 
little  empire  ;  —  little  now,  but  which  she  sees 
widening  put  in  futurity  through  her  three  broth- 
ers' work  and  their  children's." 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  245 

"  I  knew,"  said  Westlake,  after  he  had  sat  for  a 
few  moments  in  dissatisfied  silence,  "  I  knew  I  had 
once  an  uncle  who  went  off  to  parts  unknown ;  but 
it  never  occurred  to  me  that  he  might  have  de- 
scendants to  whom  I  might  owe  duties.  Have 
they  not  claims  upon  me  ?  " 

"  No  more  than  you  on  them.  Their  ancestor 
made  his  choice,  as  yours  made  his.  They  have 
the  portion  of  goods  that  falleth  to  them.  They 
are  quite  as  content  with  their  share  as  you  are 
with  yours.  Moreover,  each  party  is  free  to  com- 
plete his  inheritance  without  prejudice  to  the  other. 
They  can  recover  the  worldly  wealth  they  gave  up, 
if  they  choose  to  turn  their  endeavors  in  that  di- 
rection ;  and  nothing  forbids  to  your  children  the 
energy  and  self-denial  which  are  their  birthright  as 
much  as  that  of  their  cousins. 

"  New  England  never  gives  up  her  own.  'A.  son 
of  hers  may  think  he  has  separated  himself  forever 
from  her  and  from  her  principles,  but  she  reclaims 
him  in  his  children  or  in  his  children's  children. 

"  You  have  forgotten  your  tie  to  the  old  home. 
The  conditions  of  your  life  forbid  you  to  remember 
it.  But  your  heart  formerly  rebelled  against  these 
conditions.  It  has  never  ceased  to  protest.  Regi- 
nald's protests  already,  and  will  some  day  protest  to 
purpose." 

"  You  think  so  !  "  cried  Westlake  ;  then,  checking 


246  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

himself,  "  I  am  glad,  at  least,  that  you  think  so ;  it 
proves  that  you  like  him.  I  was  afraid  " 

"  You  are  right.  I  do  not  like  him  as  he  is,  but 
only  as  he  is  to  be.  I  saw  what  you  feared  I  did, 
and  marked  it.  I  saw  him  knock  down  the  boy 
whom  he  had  condescended  to  make  his  playmate 
in  default  of  better,  for  taking  too  much  in  earnest 
the  accorded  equality.  But  I  saw,  too,  that  his  own 
breast  was  sorer  with  the  blow  than  the  one  it  hit. 
That  is  not  always  a  cruel  discipline  which  teaches 
a  man  early  what  he  is  capable  of,  whether  in  good 
or  evil.  When  your  Reginald  comes  to  the  respon- 
sible age,  his  conscience  will  hand  in  the  account 
of  his  minority.  Looking,  then,  on  this  item  and 
on  others  like  it,  he  will  ask  himself,  '  Am  I  a  dog 
that  I  have  done  these  things  ?  '  and  he  will  become 
a  man,  and  a  good  one. 

"  We  see  farcical  pretensions  enough  down  here, 
where  men  are  daily  new-created  from  the  mud. 
There  is  Milsom.  He  does  not  own  even  the  name 
he  wears.  His  father  borrowed  it  for  a  time,  and, 
having  worn  it  out,  left  it  with  this  son,  decamping 
under  shelter  of  a  new  one.  The  son,  abandoned 
to  his  wits  at  twelve  years  old,  relieved  his  father 
from  the  charge  of  inhumanity  by  proving  them 
sufficient.  His  first  exploit  was  the  betraying  of  a 
fugitive  who  had  shared  a  crust  with  him.  This 
success  revealed  to  him  his  proper  road  to  fortune. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  247 

He  passed  through  the  regular  degrees  of  slave- 
catcher  and  slave-trader,  to  the  proud  altitude  of 
slave-holder ;  then,  moving  out  of  the  reach  of  old 
associations,  proclaims  himself  a  gentleman  by  de- 
scent as  well  as  by  desert.  His  sons  take  it  on  his 
word ;  in  all  simplicity  believe  themselves  an  inte- 
gral part  of  time-honored  aristocracy,  and  think  it 
beneath  them  to  do  anything  but  mischief. 

"  Your  claims  I  neither  blame  nor  make  light  of. 
I  know  what  their  foundation  is  better  than  you  do 
yourself.  Only  dismiss  illusions,  and  accept  realities, 
which  do  not  yield  to  them  even  in  charm  to  the 
imagination.  When  you  know  the  ground  under 
your  feet,  you  will  stand  more  quietly  as  well  as 
more  firmly.  You  will  understand  then  that  the 
silence  of  the  New-Englander  in  regard  to  his  ex- 
traction is  not  indifference,  but  security.  Nowhere 
is  the  memory  of  ancestry  so  sacredly  cherished  as 
in  New  England,  nowhere  so  humbly.  What  are 
we  in  presence  of  those  majestic  memories  ?  We 
may  lead  our  happy  humdrum  lives ;  may  fulfil 
creditably  our  easy  duties  ;  we  may  plant  and  build 
and  legislate  for  those  who  come  after  us  ;  but  it 
will  still  be  to  these  great  primitive  figures  that 
our  descendants  will  look  back ;  it  will  still  be  the 
debt  owed  there  that  will  pledge  the  living  genera- 
tion to  posterity. 

"  John  Westlake,  your  first  paternal  ancestor  in 


248  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

New  England  had  nothing  in  common  -with  the 
Puritan  leaders.  You  are  well  informed  there.  He 
came  over  to  seek  his  fortune.  They  came  to  pre- 
pare the  destinies  of  a  nation.  He  had  nothing  to 
do  with  them,  except  in  being  one  of  those  they 
worked  for.  He  came  when  the  country  was  ready 
for  him.  His  motive  was  a  reasonable  one.  I  shall 
not  impugn  it;  but  it  tells  of  the  roturier.  The 
founding  of  states  is  an  aristocratic  tendency.  He% 
was  a  respectable  ancestor.  I  have  more  than  one 
such  of  my  own.  I  owe  to  them  the  sedate  mind 
which  permits  me  to  give  myself  to  my  own  affairs, 
without  feeling  any  responsibility  about  those  of  the 
world.  But  these  are  not  the  men  who  ennoble 
their  descendants  in  perpetuity.  If  your  breast 
knows  the  secret  suggestions  of  lineage,  these 
promptings  are  not  from  John  Westlake.  You 
must  go  back  to  our  heroic  age  to  find  yours." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  find  myself  in  an 
heroic  age,"  said  Westlake,  with  a  slight  laugh,  fol- 
lowed by  a  heavy  sigh.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  might  have 
something  to  do  there.  But  this  thought  never  yet 
took  me  back  to  the  Puritans  :  the  battle-field  is 
the  hero's  place,  as  I  imagine  the  hero.  They,  I 
have  understood,  were  especially  men  of  peace.  Is 
it  not  one  of  their  first  titles  to  honor  ?  " 

"  The  office  of  the  hero  is  to  create,  to  organize,  to 
endow ;  — works  of  peace  which  incidentally  require 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  249 

him  to  suppress  its  disturbers.  The  heroes  have 
always  been  men  of  peace  —  its  winners  and  main- 
tainers  for  those  who  can  only  enjoy  it  —  from  Her- 
cules down,  that  first  great  overthrower  of  oppres- 
sions and  founder  of  colonies. 

"  To  the  age  I  call  on  you  to  date  from  —  that 
of  the  imagining  and  founding  a  new  England,  a 
renovated  world  —  belongs  the  brightest  and  dear- 
est of  English  heroic  names :  the  name  whose  asso- 
ciations of  valor  and  tenderness,  of  high-heartedness 
and  humility  are  as  fresh  now  as  when  the  love  of 
the  noble  first  canonized  it.  It  is  not  without  good 
reason  that  the  name  of  Philip  Sidney  is  a  house- 
hold word  throughout  New  England,  held  in  tradi- 
tional affection  and  reverence.  He  was  one  of  the 
first  to  project  a  new  state  beyond  the  seas,  in 
which  the  simplicity  and  loyalty  of  primitive  man- 
ners were  to  be  restored,  and  the  true  Christian 
Church  revived.  He  turned  from  these  hopes  only 
because  he  felt  that  he  owed  himself  to  Europe  as 
long  as  an  effort  for  the  vindication  of  human  rights 
upon  its  soil  was  possible.  It  was  not  love  of  war 
that  led  him  to  his  fate  in  the  Netherlands.  He 
was  not  to  be  misled  by  false  glory.  In  his  De- 
fence of  Poesy  he  makes  it  a  reproach  to  History, 
that  'the  name  of  rebel  Cassar,  after  a  thousand  six 
hundred  years,  still  stands  in  highest  honor.'  The 
peace-loving  Burleigh,  when  the  expedition  in  which 


250  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

Sidney  fell  was  setting  forth,  wrote, —  deprecating 
the  reproach  of  lukewarmness,  —  that  he  '  should 
hold  himself  a  man  accursed,  if  he  did  not  work  for 
it  with  all  the  powers  of  his  heart,  seeing  that  its 
ends  were  the  glory  of  God  and  the  preservation 
of  England  in  perpetual  tranquillity.' 

"  '  Nee  gladio  nee  arcu '  was  the  motto  of  Thomas 
Dudley,  Harry's  first  ancestor  in  this  country.  He 
was  a  man  of  peace.  But  he  offered  his  life  to  the 
same  cause  for  which  Philip  Sidney  laid  down  his,  — 
drawing  the  sword  for  it  in  France,  as  Sidney  had 
done  ten  years  before  in  Flanders.  *He  was  re- 
served to  aid  in  carrying  out  the  other  more  effect- 
ual work  which  Sidney  had  designed,  but  from 
which  his  early  death  withdrew  him. 

"  I  am  not  telling  you  of  Harry's  ancestor  for 
Harry's  sake.  You  have  your  own  part  in  all  this, 
Westlake.  When  Reginald  and  Harry  met  and 
loved  each  other,  blood  spoke  to  blood. 

"  How  many  descendants  do  you  suppose  there 
are  now  from  Governor  Thomas  Dudley's  forty 
grandchildren  ?  Hardly  a  family  of  long  standing 
in  New  England  but  counts  him  among  its  ances- 
tors ;  hardly  a  State  of  our  Union  into  which  some 
of  that  choice  blood  has  not  been  carried,  with 
other  as  precious. 

"  New  England  is  not  limited  to  that  little  north- 
eastern corner.  Our  older  country,  '  that  sceptred 


FIFTEEN  DAYS-.  251 

isle,  that  earth  of  majesty,'  did  not  send  forth  the 
happiest  of  its  '  happy  breed  of  men '  to  found  a 
world  no  wider  than  its  own  :  wherever  the  de- 
scendants of  those  great  pioneers  set  up  their 
home,  they  plant  a  new  New  England. 

"  Do  you  know  how  their  regenerate  Transatlan- 
tic country  presented  itself  to  its  early  projectors  ? 
The  most  sanguine  of  us  do  not  paint  its  future 
more  brightly  now  than  it  was  imaged  in  1583. 

"  A  Hungarian  poet,  on  a  visit  to  England,  en- 
joyed the  intimacy  of  Hakluyt,  and,  through  him 
introduced  to  the  society  of  such  men  as  Sir  Hum- 
phrey Gilbert  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  was  initiated 
into  the  hopes  and  projects  of  the  nobler  England 
of  the  day.  He  has  celebrated  these  in  a  poem 
addressed  to  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert.  The  return 
of  the  Golden  Age  promised  in  ancient  prophecy  is, 
he  believes,  impossible  in  Europe,  sunk  below  the 
iron  one.  He  sees  it,  in  vision,  revive  upon  the 
soil  of  the  New  World,  under  the  auspices  of  men 
who,  true  colonizers,  renounce  home  and  country, 
and  dare  the  vast,  vague  dangers  of  sea  and  wilder- 
ness, not  for  gain  or  for  glory,  but  '  for  the  peace 
and  welfare  of  mankind.' 

"  '  Oh,  were  it  mine  to  jojn  the  chosen  band, 
Predestined  planters  of  the  promised  land, 
My  happy  part  for  after-time  to  trace 
The  earliest  annals  of  a  new-born  race ! 


252  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

There  Earth,  with  Man  at  amity  once  more, 
To  willing  toil  shall  yield  her  willing  store. 
There  Law  with  Equity  shall  know  no  strife; 
•    Justice  and  Mercy  no  divided  life. 

Not  there  to  birth  shall  merit  bend;  not  there 
Riches  o'ermaster  freedom.     Tyrant  care 
Shall  lay  no  burden  on  man's  opening  years, 
Nor  bow  his  whitening  head  with  timeless  fears; 
But  —  every  season  in  its  order  blest  — 
Youth  shall  enjoy  its  hope,  and  age  its  restj  ' 

"  Our  poet  was  in  earnest.  He  did  not  write  the 
annals  of  the  country  that  his  hero  did  not  found ; 
but  he  shared  his  grave  under  the  waves  of  the 
Atlantic.  Their  hope  outlived  them.  Visions  like 
theirs  are  not  for  you  and  me,  Westlake.  They 
are  for  young  men,  —  for  the  men 'who  never  grow 
old.  We  may  admit  that  such  have  their  place  in 
the  world.  Man  must  strive  for  something  greatly 
beyond  what  he  can  attain,  to  eifect  anything.  He 
cannot  strive  for  what  he  has  not  faith  in.  Those 
men  who  live  in  aspirations  that  transcend  this 
sphere  believe  that  all  human  hearts  can  be  tuned 
to  the  same  pitch  with  theirs.  We  know  better, 
but  let  us  not  for  that  contemn  their  efforts.  I  am 
no  visionary.  I  have  no  inward  evidence  of  things 
not  seen ;  but  I  am  capable  of  believing  what  is 
proved.  I  believe  in  work,  —  that  none  is  lost, 
but  that,  whether  for  good  or  ill,  every  exertion  of 
power  and  patience  tells.  I  believe  in  race,  and  I 
believe  in  progress  for  a  race  with  which  belief  in 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  253 

progress  is  a  tradition,  and  which  inherits,  besides, 
the  strength,  the  courage,  and  the  persistence  which 
make  faith  prophetic. 

"  Your  institutions,  Westlake,  are  to  yield  the 
ground  to  other  forms.  They  are  contrary  to  the 
inborn  principles  of  the  race  that  leads  on  this  con- 
tinent. We  at  the  North,  who  tolerate  them,  tol- 
erate them  because  we  know  they  are  ephemeral. 
It  is  a  consciousness  of  their  transitoriness  that 
enables  you  yourselves  to  put  up  with  them." 

"  Not  so  fast !  If  they  are  not  rooted,  they  are 
taking  root.  They  have  a  stronger  hold  with  every 
year.  If  any  of  us  felt  in  the  way  you  suppose, 
we  should  have  to  keep  our  thoughts  to  ourselves." 

"  So  you  all  keep  your  thoughts  to  yourselves  for 
fear  of  each  other.  What  a  lightening  of  hearts, 
when  you  once  come  to  an  understanding !  I  wish 
it  soon  for  your  own  sakes  ;  but  a  few  years  in  the 
life  of  a  people  are  of  small  account.  I  am  will- 
ing to  wait  for  the  fulness  of  time.  The  end  is 
sure." 

"  It  all  looks  very  simple  to  you,  I  dare  say." 

"  I  do  not  undervalue  your  difficulties.  The 
greatest  is  this  miserable  population  that  has  crept 
over  your  borders  from  the  older  Slave  States : 
progeny  of  outcasts  and  of  reckless  adventurers, 
they  never  had  a  country  and  have  never  found 
one.  Without  aims  or  hopes,  they  ask  of  their 


254  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

worthless  life  only  its  own  continuance.  Ignorant 
that  they  can  never  know  anything  worse  than 
to  remain  what  they  are,  dreading  change  more 
than  those  who  may  have  something  to  lose  by  it, 
they  uphold  the  system  that  dooms  them  to  im- 
mobility, shameful  Atlantes  of  the  dismal  struc- 
ture." 

"  You  will  not  wonder  that  we  are  'ready  to 
renounce  the  theories  of  equality  put  forth  by  the 
men  you  would  have  us  look  to  as  founders.  We 
make  laws  to  keep  our  black  servants  from  getting 
instruction.  Do  you  think  we  could  legislate  the 
class  you  speak  of  into  receiving  it?" 

"  Westlake,  they  are  here.  They  are  among 
you,  and  will  be  of  you,  or  you  of  them." 

"  We  must  take  our  precautions.  We  intend  to 
do  so.  The  dividing  line  must  be  more  strongly 
marked.  They  must  have  their  level  prescribed  to 
them,  and  be  held  to  it." 

"  The  more  you  confirm  their  degradation,  the 
more  you  prepare  your  own.  The  vile  and  abject, 
for  being  helpless,  are  not  harmless.  Unapt  for 
honest  service,  but  ready  tools  of  evil,  they  corrupt 
the  class  whose  parasites  they  are,  tempting  the 
strong  and  generous  to  tyranny  and  scorn." 

"  You  know  them  !  " 

"  They  are  known  of  old.  The  world  has  never 
wanted  such. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  255 

'  The  wretches  will  not  be  dragged  out  to  sunlight. 
They  man  their  very  dungeons  for  their  masters, 
Lest  godlike  Liberty,  the  common  foe, 
Should  enter  in,  and  they  be  judged  hereafter 
Accomplices  of  freedom ! ' 

"  But  ten  righteous  men  are  enough  to  redeem 
a  state.  No  State  of  ours  but  has  men  enough, 
greatly  more  than  enough,  to  save  and  to  exalt,  it, 
whose  descent  pledges  them  to  integrity  and  entitles 
them  to  authority.  Only  let  them  know  themselves, 
and  stand  by  themselves  and  by  each  other. 

'  Nought  shall  make  us  rue, 
If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true.' 

And  it  will.  The  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited 
upon  the  children  to  the  third  and  fourth  genera- 
tion, but  their  virtues  are  a  perpetual  inheritance. 
"  I  should  not  talk  as  I  have  been  talking  out 
of  the  family."  —  The  Doctor  fell  into  his  familiar 
tone.  —  "I  take  in  Colvil,  because  I  know,  if  we 
had  time  to  trace  it  up,  we  should  not  go  back  far 
without  coming  upon  common  ancestors.  Our  pedi- 
grees all  run  one  into  another.  When  I  see  a  New- 
England  man,  I  almost  take  for  granted  a  cousin. 
I  found  one  out  not  many  days'  journey  from  here, 
by  opening  the  old  family  Bible,  which  made  an 
important  part  of  the  furniture  of  his  log  -  house, 
and  running  over  the  names  of  his  grandmothers. 
I  am  so  well  informed  in  regard  to  your  great- 
grandfather, because  his  story  is  a  part  of  my  own 


256  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

family  history.  It  is  through  your  mother  that  you 
are  related  to  Harry.  Perhaps,  if  she  had  lived 
long  enough  for  you  to  remember  her,  you  would 
not  have  forgotten  New  England." 

"  My  mother  was  an  orphan  young,  and  had 
neither  brother  nor  sister.  I  have  never  seen  any 
member  of  her  family.  They  tell  me  that  Reginald 
looks  h'ke  her." 

"  Where  is  Reginald  ?  Why  did  he  not  come 
with  you  ?  " 

"  I  asked  him  to  come.  He  said  that  Dudley 
and  he  had  agreed  on  a  time  of  meeting.  He  is 
not  very  communicative  with  me ;  but  they  seem  to 
understand  each  other." 

The  parting  of  the  classmates  was  very  kindly. 
Westlake  led  his  horse  as  far  as  the  end  of  our 
road,  —  the  Doctor,  Harry,  and  I  accompanying. 
When  he  had  mounted,  he  still  delayed.  I  thought 
that  he  looked  worn  and  weary.  With  his  old 
friend,  he  had  been  his  old,  easy  self;  but  now  that 
his  face  was  turned  towards  home,  it  seemed  that 
he  felt  its  vexations  and  cares  confronting  him 
again.  The  Doctor  probably  does  not  know  as 
much  of  -Westlake's  position  as  is  known  in  the 
neighborhood ;  he  saw  in  this  sadness  only  that  of 
the  separation  from  himself,  and  was  more  gratified 
than  pained  by  it. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  257 

"  We  shall  not  see  each  other  again,  Borrow," 
said  Westlake,  stretching  down  his  hand  for  a  last 
clasp  of  his  friend's. 

"  Yes,  we  shall.  Why  not,  if  we  both  wish  it  ? 
Say  good-bye  for  me  to  the  little  Fanny,"  the  Doc- 
tor added,  gayly. 

Westlake  brightened  with  the  one  pleasant 
thought  connected  with  his  home,  and,  under  its 
influence,  set  forward. 

The  Doctor. stood*  looking  after  him  with  a  friend- 
ly, contented  air.  He  was  pleased  with  himself 
for  having  spoken  his  mind  out,  and  with  Westlake 
for  having  heard  it.  But  when  he  turned  and  met 
Harry's  happy,  affectionate  look,  his  face  clouded. 
He  passed  us  and  walked  on  fast.  When  we  came 
into  the  house,  he  was  seated  in  the  arm-chair, 
looking  straight  before  him.  Harry  went  and 
stood  beside  him,  waiting  for  him  to  give  sign  that 
all  was  right  between  them  again  by  opening  a  new 
conversation. 

The  Doctor  did  not  hold  out  long.  "  I  have 
told,  or  as  good  as  told,  my  old  friend,"  he  began, 
with  rather  a  sour  smile,  "  that  he  is  suffering  him- 
self to  be  infected  by  the  meannesses  of  those  below 
him  ;  and  now  I  am  almost  ready  to  tell  myself  that 
my  grave  years  are  giving  into  the  fanaticisms  of 
boyhood.  But  I  stand  where  I  did,  Harry.  I 
stand  precisely  where  I  did.  I  have  always  told 
17 


258  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

you  that  I  hate  slavery  as  much  as  you  do.  The 
only  difference  between  us  is,  that  I  am  not  for  jus- 
tice though  the  heavens  fall." 

"  Justice,  and  the  heavens  will  not  fall,"  Harry 
answered,  firmly,  but  with  a  tender  deference  in 
look  and  tone. 

"  And  you  make  too  much  account  of  a  name," 
the  Doctor  went  on.  "  What  does  it  signify  that 
men  are  called  slaves  and  slaveholders,  if,  in  their 
mutual  relations,  they  observe  the  laws  of  justice 
and  kindness  ?  You  will  not  deny  that  this  is  pos- 
sible ?  I  object  to  slavery,  as  it  exists,  because  it 
too  often  places  almost  absolute  power  in  unqualified 
hands.  But  you  are  too  sweeping.  Good  men  are 
good  masters.  I  should  count  Harvey  among  such. 
Colvil  has  given  you  a  portrait  you  will  accept  in 
Shaler,  who  was  as  good  a  man  when  he  was  a 
slaveholder  as  he  is  now.  Cicero,  a  slaveholder,  — 
and  Roman  slaveholders  have  not  the  best  repute,  — 
writing  upon  justice,  does  not  put  the  slave  beyond 
its  pale  ;  he  recognizes  his  humanity  and  its  rights. 
Will  you  suppose  that  we  have  not  American  slave- 
holders as  Christian  as  Cicero  ?  " 

"  Cicero  has  said  that  to  see  a  wrong  done  with- 
out protesting  is  to  commit  one." 

"  We  will  not  dispute  to-night,  Harry.  I  am 
not  altogether  insensible  to  the  interests  of  the 
world,  but  I  have  some  regard  for  yours.  Perhaps 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  259 

I  should  take  less  thought  for  them,  if  there  were 
hope  that  you  would  take  any.  At  any  rate,  we 
will  not  dispute  to-night." 

Harry,  at  least,  was  in  no  mood  for  disputing. 
He  was  very  happy.  He  had  a  gayety  of  manner 
I  had  hardly  seen  in  him.  The  Doctor  soon  fell 
into  tune  with  it,  and  reconciled  himself  to  the 
pleasure  he  had  caused. 


WEDNESDAY,  April  17,  1844. 

THE  Friday  came.  We  had  made  our  last  even- 
ing a  long  one,  but  we  were  up  early  on  the  last 
morning.  Harry  and  I  had  our  walk  together. 
Coming  back,  we  found  the  Doctor  under  Keith's 
Pine,  busy  making  up  his  dried  grasses  and  flowers 
into  little  compact  packages.  We  sat  down  there 
with  him  as  usual.  I  read  aloud.  My  reading 
gave  us  matter  of  discussion  on  the  way  home. 

After  breakfast,  Hans,  Karl,  and  Fritz  came  up 
to  the  Jiouse.  Good  Friday  we  always  keep  alone 
with  our  own  family ;  but  •  these  three  are  of  it, 
though  they  are  lodged  under  a  different  roof.  I 
read  part  of  a  sermon  of  South's :  —  "  For  the 
transgression  of  my  people  was  he  stricken." 

How  real  seemed  to  me,  that  morning,  the  sacred 
story !  I  had  hitherto  contemplated  the  Christ  in 
his  divine  being,  looking  up  to  him  from  a  reverent 
distance.  Now  he  seemed  suddenly  brought  near 
to  me  in  his  human  nature.  I  felt  that  our  earth 
had,  indeed,  once  owned  him.  And  then  how  vivid 
the  sense  of  loss  and  waste,  —  a  beautiful  and  be- 
neficent life  cut  short  by  violence  !  "  Dying,  not 
like  a  lamp  that  for  want  of  oil  can  burn  no  longer, 
but  like  a  torch  in  its  full  flame  blown  out  by  the 
breath  of  a  north  wind  !  " 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  261 

Everything  that  I  read  with  Harry,  or  that  I 
talk  over  with  him,  has  new  meaning  for  me,  or  a 
new  force. 

Why  are  we  so  careful  to  avoid  pain  ?  If  it  was 
a  necessary  part  of  the  highest  mortal  experience, 
how  can  we  ask  that  it  may  be  left  out  from  ours  ? 
And  yet,  on  every  new  occasion,  we  strive  to  put 
from  us  the  offered  cross.  Even  while  we  say, 
"  Thy  will  be  done !  "  an  inward  hope  entreats  that 
will  to  be  merciful.  Such  remonstrances  with  my- 
self rose  in  me  as  I  read.  They  did  not  prevent  me 
from  feeling  a  thrill  of  dread  as  this  warning  passed 
over  my  lips  :  —  "  Who  shall  say  how  soon  God 
may  draw  us  from  our  easy  speculations  and  theo- 
ries of  suffering,  to  the  practical  experience  of  it? 
Who  can  tell  how  soon  we  may  be  called  to  the 
fiery  trial?"  I  turned  involuntarily  to  Harry. 
He,  too,  had  heard  a  summons  in  these  words.  I 
read  in  his  eyes  the  answer  that  came  from  his 
steady  breast,  —  "  My  Father,  I  am  here  !  "  I  felt 
my  spirit  lifted  with  the  closing  words,  —  "  If  we 
suffer  with  him,  we  shall  also  reign  with  him  " ; 
but  there  was  no  change  in  Harry's  clear,  prepared 
look.  I  have  never  known  a  faith  so  implicit  as 
his.  He  does  not  ask  after  threats  or  promises ;  he 
only  listens  for  commands. 

When  the  services  were  over,  Hans  came  for- 
ward to  say  good-bye  to  the  Doctor  and  Harry.  He 


262  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

took  a  hand  of  each,  and  stood  looking  from  one  to 
the  other. 

"We  cannot  spare  you,  Harry  Dudley.  We 
shall  miss  you,  Doctor.  Harry,  when  you  are 
ready  to  set  up  your  farm,  come  and  take  a  look 
round  you  here  again.  We  are  good  people,  and 
love  you.  There  will  be  land  near  in  the  market 
before  long.  Sooner  should  you  have  it  than  old 
Rasey.  Think  of  it;  we  can  talk  things  over, 
evenings." 

"  You  shall  have  your  turn,"  he  said  to  his  boys, 
who  were  waiting,  one  on  either  side  of  him.  "  I 
am  an  old  man,  and  leave-taking  comes  hard. 
Youth  has  many  chances  more." 

He  gave  his  benediction,  repeated  a  little  rhym- 
ing German  couplet,  —  a  charm,  perhaps,  for  a 
good  journey,  —  and  then  turned  away  sturdily, 
went  slowly  out  of  the  door  and  down  the  steps, 
leaving  Karl  and  Fritz  to  say  their  words  of  fare- 
well. Karl  spoke  for  both.  What  Fritz  had  in 
his  heart  to  say  he  could  not  utter,  for  the  tears 
would  have  come  with  it. 

At  a  quarter  before  twelve  Harry  brought  down 
the  russet  knapsack,  —  brought  down  the  little 
flower-press,  —  brought  down  the  long  umbrella. 

He  transferred  from  the  over-full  knapsack  to  his 
own  some  packages  of  flowers.  The  flower-press 
would  not  enter  either  knapsack.  The  Doctor  had 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  263 

it  strapped  on  outside  his.  I  watched  these  little 
arrangements,  glad  of  the  time  they  took.  Harry 
helped  the  Doctor  on  with  his  pack.  I  would  have 
done  the  same  for  Harry,  but  he  was  too  quick  for 
me.  I  adjusted  the  strap  from  which  the  green  tin 
case  hung,  that  I  might  do  something  for  him. 

Doctor  Borrow  took  a  serious  leave  of  my  mother, 
—  for  this,  at  least,  was  a  final  one.  But  Harry 
would  not  have  it  so.  The  tears  were  gathering 
in  her  eyes.  "  You  will  see  us  again,"  he  said,  con- 
fidently. 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head.  "  You  have  made 
us  too  happy  here  for  us  not  to  wish  that  it  might 
be  so." 

But  my  mother  accepted  Harry's  assurance. 

They  looked  round  for  Tabitha.  She  appeared 
from  my  mother's  room,  the  door  of  which  had  been 
a  little  open.  Both  thanked  her  cordially  for  her 
kind  cares.  She  gave  them  her  good  wishes,  affec- 
tionately and  solemnly,  and  disappeared  again. 

"  I  shall  not  bid  you  good-bye,"  said  the  Doctor, 
yet  taking  my  hand. 

"  Only  till  the  nineteenth,"  said  Harry,  clasping 
it  as  soon  as  the  Doctor  relinquished  it.  "  Till  the 
eighteenth,"  I  mean ;  "  till  the  eighteenth,"  he 
repeated,  urgently. 

"  Till  the  eighteenth,"  I  answered. 

The  Doctor  mounted  the  blue  spectacles.     This 


264  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

was  the  last  act  of  preparation.  The  minute-hand 
was  close  upon  the  appointed  moment. 

At  the  first  stroke  of  twelve,  they  were  on  their 
way.  I  followed,  slowly,  as  if  the  reluctance  of 
my  steps  could  hold  back  theirs.  The  gate  closed 
behind  them.  The  Doctor  took  at  once  his  travel- 
ling gait  and  trudged  straight  on  ;  but  Harry  turned 
and  gave  a  glance  to  the  house,  to  the  barn,  to  the 
little  patch  of  flowers, —  to  all  the  objects  with  which 
the  week  had  made  him  familiar.  Then  his  look 
fell  upon  me,  who  was  waiting  for  it.  He  searched 
my  face  intently  for  an  instant,  and  then,  with  a 
smile  which  made  light  of  all  but  happy  presenti- 
ments, waved  me  adieu,  and  hastened  on  to  over- 
take the  Doctor. 

I  was  glad  it  was  not  a  working-day,  —  glad  that 
I  could  go  in  and  sit  down  by  my  mother,  to  talk 
over  with  her,  or,  silent,  to  think  over  with  her, 
the  scenes  which  had  animated  our  little  room, 
and  which  were  still  to  animate  it.  Harry's  part- 
ing look  stayed  with  me.  I  felt  all  my  gain,  and 
had  no  more  sense  of  loss.  Can  we  ever  really 
lose  what  we  have  ever  really  possessed  ? 


EVENING. 

I  HAVE  been  over  to  Blanty's.     I  should  have 
gone  yesterday,  but  it  rained  heavily  from  early 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  265 

morning  until  after  dark.  Such  days  I  consider 
yours.  I  had  been  anxious  about  Blanty  since 
Sunday,  and  not  altogether  without  reason.  He 
has  had  a  threatening  of  fever.  I  hope  it  will 
prove  a  false  alarm.  I  found  him  sitting 'at  his 
door,  already  better,  —  but  still  a  good  deal  cast 
down,  for  he  was  never  ill  in  his  life  before.  He 
had  been  wishing  for  me,  and  would  have  sent  to 
me,  if  I  had  not  gone.  He  could  hardly  let  me 
come  away,  but  pressed  me  to  stay  one  hour  longer, 
one  half  hour,  one  quarter.  But  I  had  some  things 
to  attend  to  at  home,  and,  as  he  did  not  really  need 
me,  I  bade  him  good-bye  resolutely,  promising  to 
go  to  him  again  next  Monday.  I  cannot  well  go 
sooner. 

If  I  had  stayed,  I  should  have  missed  a  visit 
from  Frederic  Harvey.  •  When  I  came  within  sight 
of  our  gate,  on  the  way  back,  a  horseman  was  wait- 
ing at  it,  looking  up  the  road,  as  if  watching  for  me. 
He  darted  forward,  on  my  appearance,  —  stopped 
short,  when  close  beside  me,  —  dismounted,  and 
greeted  me  with  a  warmth  which  I  blamed  myself 
for  finding  it  hard  to  return.  He  did  not  blame 
me,  apparently.  Perhaps  he  ascribes  the  want  he 
may  feel  in  my  manner  to  New-England  reserve  ;  or 
perhaps  he  feels  no  want.  He  is  so  assured  of  the 
value  of  his  regard,  that  he  takes  full  reciprocity  for 
granted.  The  docile  horse,  at  a  sign,  turned  and 


266  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

walked  along  beside  us  to  the  gate,  followed  us 
along  the  path  to  the  house,  and  took  his  quiet 
stand  before  the  door  when  we  went  in. 

Frederic  Harvey,  having  paid  his  respects  to  my 
mother1,  seated  himself  in  the  great  arm-chair,  which 
now  seems  to  be  always  claiming  the  Doctor,  and 
which  this  new,  slender  occupant  filled  .very  inade- 
quately. 

"  I  stayed  in  New  York  three  weeks  too  long," 
he  exclaimed,  after  looking  about  him  a  little  —  for 
traces  of  Harry,  it  seemed.  "  Time  goes  so  fast 
there !  But  I  thought,  from  one  of  my  sister's 
letters,  that  Dudley  was  to  go  back  to  World's  End 
after  he  left  you.  Is  he  changed  ?  Oh,  but  you 
cannot  tell.  You  never  knew  him  till  now.  I  need 
not  have  asked,  at  any  rate.  He  is  not  one  to 
change.  While  I  knew  him,  he  was  only  more 
himself  with  every  year." 

"  It  is  two  years  since  you  met,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  what  are  two  years  to  men  who  were 
children  together  ?  We  shall  take  things  up  just 
where  we  laid  them  down.  Ours  is  the  older  friend- 
ship. I  shall  always  have  the  advantage  of  you 
there.  But  you  and  he  must  have  got  along  very 
well  together.  Your  notions  agree  with  his  better 
than  mine  do.  It  does  not  matter.  Friendship 
goes  by  fate,  I  believe.  He  may  hold  what  opin- 
ions he  likes,  for  me  ;  and  so  may  you." 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  267 

"  I  believe  that  on  some  important  subjects  my 
opinions  differ  very  much  from  yours."  —  I  am  de- 
termined to  stand  square  with  Frederic  Harvey. 

"  In  regard  to  our  institutions,  you  mean  ?  I 
know,  that,  spoken  or  unspoken,  hatred  of  them  is 
carried  in  the  heart  of  every  New-Englander.  It 
is  sometimes  suppressed  through  politeness  or  from 
interest,  but  I  never  saw  a  Northerner  who  was 
good  for  anything,  in  whom  it  did  not  break  out 
on  the  first  provocation.  I  like  as  well  to  have  it 
fairly  understood  in  the  outset.  I  have  had  a  letter 
from  Harry  in  answer  to  one  of  mine.  It  is  ex- 
plicit on  this  point." 

I  had  no  doubt  it  was  very  explicit.  Frederic's 
eye  meeting  mine,  he  caught  my  thought,  and  we 
had  a  good  laugh  together,  which  made  us' better 
friends. 

"  The  Northerners  are  brought  up  in  their  set  of 
prejudices,  as  we  in  ours.  I  can  judge  of  the  force 
of  theirs  by  that  of  my  own.  I  only  wish  there 
was  the  same  unanimity  among  us.  We  are  a 
house  divided  against  itself." 

And  Frederic's  face  darkened,  —  perhaps  with 
the  recollection  of  the  rupture  of  old  ties  in  Shaler's 
case,  —  or  rather,  as  it  seemed,  with  the  rankling  of 
some  later,  nearer  pain.  He  turned  quickly  away 
from  the  intrusive  thought,  whatever  it  was.  He 
does  not  like  the  unpleasant  side  of  things. 


268  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

"  At  any  rate,  because  Harry  Dudley  and  I  are 
to  be  adverse,  it  does  not  follow  that  we  are  to  be 
estranged.  I  cannot  forget  our  school-days,  —  our 
walks  on  the  boulevards  and  the  quays,  —  our  rides 
in  the  Bois, —  our  journeys  together,  when  we  were 
like  brothers.  I  was  never  so  happy  as  in  those  days, 
when  I  had  not  a  care  or  a  duty  in  the  world." 

He  had  the  air,  with  his  twenty-one  years,  of  a 
weary  man-of-the-world.  There  was  no  affectation 
in  it.  Unless  report  have  done  him  injustice,  the 
last  two  years  have  put  a  gulf  between  him  and 
that  time. 

I  reminded  him  of  the  conversation  between  him 
and  his  sister,  in  which  they  spoke  of  Harry  Dudley 
before  I  knew  who  Harry  Dudley  was.  He  re- 
membered it,  and  returned  very  readily  to  the 
subject  of  it.  He  related  many  incidents  of  the 
tour  in  Brittany,  and  spoke  warmly  of  the  pleasure 
of  travelling  with  a  companion  who  is  alive  to  every- 
thing of  interest  in  every  sort.  He  said  his  travels 
in  Germany,  and  even  in  Italy,  had  hardly  left  with 
him  so  lively  and  enduring  impressions  as  this  little 
journey  into  Brittany ;  for  there  he  had  gone  to  the 
heart  of  things. 

"  I  must  see  him  again.     We  must  meet  once 

O 

more  as  we  used  to  meet.  We  must  have  one 
good  clasp  of  the  hand  ;  we  must,  at  least,  say  a 
kind  good-bye  to  the  old  friendship.  If,  hereafter, 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  269 

we  find  ourselves  opposed  in  public  life,  I  shall  deal 
him  the  worst  I  can,  but  with  openness  and  loyalty 
like  his  own,  and  doing  him  more  justice  in  my 
heart,  perhaps,  than  he  will  do  me." 

Frederic  Harvey  inquired  anxiously  where  Harry 
was  to  be  found,  and  I  was  obliged  to  tell  him  of 
our  intended  meeting.  I  was  afraid  he  would  pro- 
pose to  go  with  me.  He  was  on  the  point  of  doing 
so,  but  refrained,  seeing  that  I  was  not  expecting 
such  a  suggestion. 

We  could  easily  have  arranged  to  meet  at  Quick- 
ster,  which  is  about  the  same  distance  from  him 
that  it  is  from  me.  But  a  ride  of  twenty  miles, 
most  of  them  slow  ones,  beside  a  man  with  whom 
you  are  not  in  full  sympathy,  is  a  trial.  I  did  not 
feel  called  upon  to  undergo  it  for  him.  When  he 
took  leave  of  me,  he  again  seemed  about  to  propose 
something,  and  I  felt  it  was  this  plan  which  was  so 
natural.;  but  he  was  again  withheld,  by  pride  or  by 
delicacy.  Either  feeling  I  could  sympathize  with, 
and  I  was  more  touched  by  this  reserve  than  by  all 
his  friendly  advances ;  but  I  hardened  my  heart. 
He  mounted  his  horse.  I  saw  him  go  slowly 
down  the  path  to  the  road,  stoop  from  the  saddle 
to  open  the  gate,  —  pass  out.  And  then  I  was 
seized  with  sudden  compunction.  I  heard  the  slow 
step  of  his  horse,  receding  as  if  reluctantly,  and 
ready  to  be  checked  at  a  hint.  I  ran  to  the  gate. 


270  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

Frederic  was  just  turning  away,  as  if  he  had  been 
looking  back,  expecting  to  see  me  ;  but  in  the 
same  instant  he  gave  an  intimation  to  his  horse, 
and  was  out  of  the  reach  of  my  repentance. 

"  I  liked  him."  With  Harry  these  words  mean 
a  great  deal.  Could  Harry  ever  have  liked  him, 
if  he  had  not  been  worthy  to  be  liked  ?  How  sad 
his  look  was,  when  he  spoke  of  his  happy  boyish 
days  !  —  happier  than  these  only  because  they  were 
blameless.  Was  not  this  regret  itself  an  earnest  of 
the  power  of  return  ?  He  had  good  blood  in  him. 
He  is  Charles  Shaler's  cousin.  He  has  a  weak, 
shallow  mother,  —  a  father  whose  good  qualities  and 
whose  faults  are  overlaid  with  the  same  worldly 
varnish  impartially.  He  feels  the  need  of  other 
influences,  and  clings  to  Harry.  He  comes  to  me 
instinctively  seeking  something  he  has  not  in  his 
home.  My  mother  has  always  judged  him  more 
kindly  than  I  have.  If  he  had  been  a  poor  outcast 
child,  I  should  have  felt  his  coming  to  me  so  frankly 
and  so  persistently  to  be  a  sign  I  was  to  do  some- 
thing for  him.  Is  there  a  greater  need  than  that  of 
sympathy  and  honest  counsel  ?  I  have  been  selfish, 
but  this  pain  is  punishment  enough.  I  feel  a  re- 
morse surely  out  of  proportion  to  my  sin.  I  do  not 
prevent  his  going  to  meet  Harry  by  not  asking  him 
to  go  with  me.  He  is  not  one  to  give  up  his  wish ; 
and  in  this  case  there  is  no  reason  that  he  should. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  271 

He  will  arrive  ;  I  am  sure  of  it.  And  I  will  atone, 
at  least  in  part.  I  will  ask  him  to  join  me  on  the 
ride  home. 

Old  Jasper  has  told  me  stories  of  Frederic 
Harvey's  (rood  -  heartedness  in  childhood  :  tells 
them  to  me,  indeed,  every  time  he  sees  me.  I  re- 
member one  in  particular,  of  the  pretty  little  boy 
in  his  foreign  dress,  and  speaking  his  foreign  lan- 
guage, carrying  his  own  breakfast  one  morning  to 
the  cabin  where  the  old  man  lay  sick ;  and  another 
of  his  taking  away  part  of  her  load  from  a  feeble 
woman ;  and  another  of  his  falling  on  a  drivel*  and 
wresting  from  him  the  whip  with  which  he  was 
lashing  a  fainting  boy.  But  Jasper  has  only  these 
early  stories  to  tell  of  him ;  and  what  different  ones . 
are  current  now ! 

In  dear  old  New  England  the  child  is  father  of 
the  man.  There  the  lovely  infancy  is  the  sure 
promise  of  the  noble  maturity.  But  wThere  justice 
is  illegal !  where  mercy  is  a  criminal  indulgence ! 
where  youth  is  disciplined  to  selfishness,  and  the 
man's  first  duty  is  to  deny  himself  his  virtues  !  If 
the  nephew  of  Augustus  had  lived,  would  he  indeed 
have  been  Marcellus  ?  Heu  pietas !  Heu  prisca 
fides  !  —  these  might  have  been  mourned,  though 
Octavia  had  not  wept  her  son. 


THURSDAY,  April  18,  1844. 

IT  is  thirty-five  miles  to  Omocqua  by  the'  common 
road  through  Metapora  and  Tenpinville ;  but  I 
shall  save  myself  five,  going  across  fields  and 
through  wood-paths,  and  coming  out  at  Quickster. 
You  left  the  Omocqua  road  there,  and  took  that  to 
Quarleston.  I  shall  stop  half  an  hour  at  Quickster 
to  rest  my  horse  and  have  a  little  talk  with  Barton. 
I  me&n  to  allow  myself  ample  time  for  the  journey, 
that  Brownie  may  take  it  easily  and  yet  bring  me 
to  Omocqua  in  season  for  a  stroll  about  the  neigh- 
borhood with  the  Doctor  and  Harry  before  night- 
fall. Some  miles  of  my  way  are  difficult  with  tree- 
stumps  and  brush ;  a  part  of  it  is  sandy ;  the  last 
third  is  hilly.  I  have  never  been  farther  on  that 
road  than  Ossian,  about  three  miles  beyond  Quick- 
ster ;  but  the  country  between  Ossian  and  Omocqua 
is,  I  know,  very  much  like  that  between  Quarleston 
and  Cyclops,  which  you  found  so  beautiful  and  so 
tiresome. 

I  do  not  mean  that  my  parting  with  Harry  shall 
be  a  sad  one.  After  that  day  at  Omocqua,  I  shall 
not  meet  his  smile,  —  his  hand  will  not  clasp  mine 
again  ;  but  he  will  leave  with  me  something  of 
himself  which  will  not  go  from  me.  His  courage, 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  273 

the  energy  of  his  straightforward  will,  shall  still 
nerve  and  brace  me,  though  his  cordial  voice  may 
never  again  convey  their  influence  to  my  heart. 
Wherever  he  is,  I  shall  know  we  are  thinking, 
feeling  together,  and  working  together ;  for  I  shall 
surely  do  what  he  asks  of  me  :  that  he  thinks  it 
worth  doing  is  enough. 

And  Dr.  Borrow  does  not  leave  me  what  he 
found  me.  It  was  with  a  continual  surprise  that  I 
learned  how  much  there  is  of  interest  and  variety 
in  our  uniform  neighborhood  for  a  man  who  knows 
the  meaning  of  what  he  sees.  How  many  things 
are  full  of  suggestion  now  that  were  mute  before ! 
He  has  given  me  glimpses  of  undreamed-of  pleas- 
ures. A  practical  man,  following  him  in  his  walks, 
and  gathering  up  the  hints  he  lets  fall,  might  turn 
them  to  great  real  use. 

What  a  part  the  Doctor  and  such  as  he,  disciples 
and  interpreters  of  Nature,  would  have  in  the  world, 
how  warmly  they  would  be  welcomed  everywhere, 
if  these  were  only  times  in  which  men  could  live 
as  they  were  meant  to  live,  happy  and  diligent, 
cherishing  Earth  and  adorning  her,  receiving  her 
daily  needful  gifts,  and  from  time  to  time  coming 
upon  precious  ones,  which  she,  fond  and  wise 
mother,  has  kept  back  for  the  surprise  of  some 
hour  of  minuter  search  or  bolder  divination  ! 

But  now,  how  ean  we  be  at  ease  to  enjoy  our 
18 


274  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

own  lot,  however  pleasantly  it  may  have  been  cast 
for  us,  or  to  occupy  ourselves  with  material  cares  or 
works,  even  the  most  worthy  and  the  most  rational  ? 

We  are  taught  to  pray,  "  Thy  kingdom  come," 
before  we  ask  for  our  daily  bread. 

To  pray  for  what  we  do 'not  at  the  same  time 
strive  for,  is  it  not  an  impiety  ?  • 

Dr.  Borrow  says  that  Harry  is  out  of  place  in 
our  time.  I  should  rather  say  that  it  is  he  himself 
who  is  here  a  century,  or  perhaps  only  a  half-cen- 
tury, too  soon.  Our  first  need  now  is  of  men  clear- 
sighted to  moral  truths,  and  intrepid  to  announce 
and  maintain  them. 

It  was  through  the  consciousness,  not  yet  lost, 
of  eternal  principles,  that  primitive  poetry  made 
Themis  the  mother  of  the  gracious  Hours,  —  those 
beneficent  guardians,  bringers  of  good  gifts,  pro- 
moters and  rewarders  of  man's  happy  labor.  When 
Justice  returns  to  make  her  reign  on  earth,  with 
her  come  back  her  lovely  daughters,  and  all  the 
beautiful  attendant  train. 

When  that  time  arrives,  the  Doctor  will  have 
found  his  place,  and  Harry  will  not  have  lost 
his. 

Perhaps  I  shall  not  come  back  until  Saturday. 
According  to  their  plan,  Dr.  Borrow  and  Harry  are 
to  leave  Omocqua  again  to-morrow  afternoon  ;  but 
I  shall  try  to  persuade  them  to  remain  until  the 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  275 

next  morning.  While  they  stay,  I  shall  stay. 
When  they  go,  Brownie  and  I  take  our  homeward 
road.  In  any  case,  I  will  write  to  you  Friday 
night,  and  send  off  my  budget  on  Saturday  with- 
out fail. 

To-day  has  not  given  me  anything  to  tell  of  it 
yet,  except  that  it  has  opened  as  it  should,  fresh 
and  cloudless.  In  five  ^  hours  I  shall  be  on  the 
road. 

My  paper  is  blistered  and  the  writing  blurred 
with  wet  drops.  It  is  only  that  some  freshly  gath- 
ered flowers  on  my  table  have  let  fall  their  dew 
upon  the  page.  You,  with  the  trace  of  mysticism 
that  lurks  in  your  man  of  the  world's  heart,  would 
be  drawing  unfavorable  auguries.  I  am  too  happy 
to  accept  any  to-day.  If  fancy  will  sport  with  this 
accident,  let  it  feign  that  these  morning  tears  are 
of  sympathy,  but  not  of  compassion  ;  that  they  fall, 
not  to  dim  my  hopes,  but  to  hallow  them. 


EVENING. 

"  In  five  hours  I  shall  be  on  the  road."  So  I 
wrote  at  six  o'clock.  I  wrote  too  confidently. 

At  eleven  I  had  mounted  my  horse,  had  sent  my 
last  good-bye  through  the  open  window,  and  had 
caught  the  last  soft  answer  from  within.  I  lingered 


276  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

yet  an  instant,  held  by  those  links  of  tenderness  and 
solicitude  that  bind  to  home  and  make  the  moment 
of  parting  for  any  unusual  absence,  even  though  a 
pleasant  and  desired  one,  a  moment  of  effort.  A 
heavy,  dragging  step,  which  I  almost  knew  before  I 
saw  the  lounging  figure  of  Phil  Phinn,  warned  me 
of  a  different  delay.  I  watched  his  slow  approach 
with  a  resignation  which  had  still  a  little  hope  in  it ; 
but  when  he  at  last  stood  beside  me  and  began  his 
ingratiating  preamble,  I  felt  my  sentence  confirm- 
ed. His  woe-begone  face,  his  quivering  voice,  an- 
nounced the  suppliant  before  he  reached  the  re- 
cital of  his  wrongs ;  while  the  utter  self-abandon- 

O       * 

ment  of  his  attitude  conveyed  renunciation  of  all 
cares  and  responsibilities  in  favor  of  his  elected 
patron.  I  will  not  give  you  the  details  of  the  dif- 
ficulty of  to-day, — an  absurd  and  paltry  one,  yet 
capable  of  serious  consequences  to  him.  I  obeyed 
instinctively  the  old-fashioned  New-England  prin- 
ciple I  was  brought  up  in,  whicli  requires  us  to 
postpone  the  desire  of  the  moment  to  its  demands. 
Sadly  I  led  my  horse  to  the  stable,  took  off  the  sad- 
dle and  put  him  up.  "  I  cannot  be  back  until  two," 
I  thought,  "  perhaps  not  before  three.  I  shall  lose 
our  walk  and  our  sunset  ;  but  even  if  it  is  as  late  as 
four,  I  will  still  go."  I  ran  into  the  house  to  say 
a  word  of  explanation  to  my  mother ;  but  she  had 
heard  and  understood.  She  gave  me  a  look  of  sym- 
pathy, and  I  did  not  wait  for  more. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  277 

I  set  out  resolutely  in  a  direction  opposite  to  that 
in  which  my  own  road  lay.  Phil  Phinn  followed, 
already  raised  to  complacency,  though  not  to  energy. 
I  outwalked  him  continually,  and  was  obliged  to 
stop  and  wait  for  him  to  come  up.  He  plainly 
thought  my  haste  unseasonable,  and  did  not  disguise 
that  he  was  incommoded  by  the  sun  and  the  mud. 
It  was  a  tedious  way,  a  long  five  miles  for  him  and 
for  me. 

We  arrived  at  last  at  the  house  of  his  adversary, 
who,  having,  besides  the  advantage  of  being  in  a 
superior  position,  also  that  of  justice  on  his  side, 
could  the  more  easily  give  way.  I  should  soon 
have  come  to  an  understanding  with  him,  if  my 
client,  while  leaving  me  the  whole  responsibility  of 
his  case,  had  not  found  himself  unable  to  resign  its 
management :  he  must  lend  me  the  aid  of  his  argu- 
mentative and  persuasive  gifts.  After  some  hours 
of  wrangling  and  pleading,  the  matter  was  accom- 
modated, and  Phil  Phinn,  without  a  care  in  the 
world,  or  the  apprehension  of  ever  having  one 
again,  sauntered  away  toward  his  home.  I  set  off 
for  mine,  already  doubtful  of  myself,  remembering 
that  I  was  not  the  only  disappointed  one. 

When  I  reached  home,  it  was  half-past  six 
o'clock.  I  felt  strongly  impelled  to  go,  even  then. 
My  mother  did  not  offer  any  objection,  but  her 
look  showed  so  plainly  the  anxiety  the  thought  of  a 


278  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

night-ride  caused  her,  that  I  gave  it  up  without  a 
word.  I  could  not,  indeed,  have  arrived  at  Omoc- 
qua  before  midnight,  and  Harry  would  long  have 
done  expecting  me. 

I  am  not  as  well  satisfied  with  myself  as  I  ought 
to  be,  having  made  such  a  sacrifice  to  duty.  I  be- 
gin to  ask  myself,  Was  it  made  to  duty  ?  After  all, 
a  little  suspense  would  have  done  Phil  Phinn  good, 
—  if  anything  can  do  him  good.  And  are  not  the 
claims  of  friendship  paramount  to  all  other  ?  Harry 
will  be  pained  by  needless  anxiety.  Can  he  believe 
that  I  would,  without  grave  cause,  lose  any  of  the 
time  we  might  yet  have  together?  But  a  few 
hours  will  set  all  right. 


FRIDAY  NIGHT,  April  19. 

1  AM  at  home  again.  I  take  out  the  package 
which  has  been  waiting  for  the  day  at  Omocqua. 
Hoarding  is  always  imprudence..  If  these  letters 
of  last  week  had  gone  on  their  day,  they  would 
have  been  faithful  messengers.  Now  they  go  to 
tell  you  of  a  happiness  which  already  is  not  mine, 
—  of  hopes  and  plans  that  you  can  never  share. 

Are  these  last  pages  yesterday's?  A  lifetime  is 
between  me  and  them.  The  book  I  pushed  aside  to 
write  them  lies  there  open,  waiting  to  be  recalled. 
Had  it  an  interest  for  me  only  yesterday  ?  The 
flowers  on  my  table  still  hold  their  frail,  transient 
beauty.  No  longer  ago  than  when  I  gathered 
them,  I  could  take  pleasure  in  flowers! 

I  sit  here  and  go  through  the  history  of  these 
last  two  days,  retracing  every  minutest  incident. 
I  begin  again.  1  make  some  one  little  circumstance 
different,  and  with  it  all  is  changed.  I  pass  into  a 
happy  dream  ;  I  find  myself  smiling.  And  then  I 
remember  that  I  cannot  smile ! 

I  was  to  write  to  you  to-night.  I  should  have 
written,  if  I  had  not  promised.  I  must  spend  these 
hours  with  you.  Every  object  here  is  so  full  of 


280  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

pain  !  Everything  is  so  exactly  as  it  was ;  and  yet 
nothing  can  ever  be  as  it  was  to  me  again ! 

It  seemed  last  evening  that  I  suffered  more  from 
my  disappointment  than  was  reasonable.  I  wished 
for  sleep  to  shorten  the  .hours  of  waiting.  But 
troubled  dreams  lengthened  them  instead.  I  was 
up  at  three  ;  at  four  I  was  on  the  road.  I  had 
an  hour  over  fields  and  cleared  land  ;  then  came 
some  miles  through  the  woods.  The  forest -ride 
had  not  its  usual  charm.  I  was  still  haunted  by 
the  failure  of  yesterday.  I  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  being  misjudged  by  Harry,  even  for  a 
moment.  I  longed  to  be  with  him  and  explain. 
But  would  he  find  me  absolved?  I  was  glad  to 
come  out  into  light  and  cheerfulness  at  Quickster. 
It  was  six  o'clock  when  I  stood  before  the  door  of 
the  Rapid  Run.  Barton  came  down  to  me,  drew 
out  his  pocket>book,  and  took  from  it  a  folded 
paper. 

"  Here  is  something  of  yours." 

I  opened  it  and  found  written  in  pencil,  —  "  Jack- 
son House,  Omocqua."  The  sight  of  that  frank 
handwriting  dispelled  every  doubt. 

"  When  was  he  here  ?  " 

"  He  came  in  a  little  before  one  yesterday.  He 
asked  if  you  had  been  along.  I  thought  not ;  you 
would  have  given  me  a  call.  He  stayed  round 
here  about  an  hour,  waiting  for  you.  I  told  him 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  281 

that  you  might  have  struck  the  road  farther  down, 
—  at  Ossian,  perhaps.  He  took  a  horse  of  me, 
knowing  you  would  ride." 

"  He  was  alone  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  told  me  Dr.  Borrow  was  at  Ren- 
tree;  was  to  join  him  at  Omocqua  this  morning, 
though." 

O 

In  half  an  hour  we  were  on  our  way  again.  I 
was  eager  still,  but  no  longer  impatient.  There 
was  no  uncertainty  in  my  mind  now.  Harry  was 
at  Omocqua.  He  was  expecting  me.  As  to  blam- 
ing me,  he  had  never  thought  of  it.  He  would 
have  imagined  for  me  some  better  excuse  than  I 
had  to  give.  Or  rather,  it  had  never  occurred  to 

o  7 

him  that  I  could  need  excuse.  I  should  find  him 
at  the  door  on  the  lookout  for  me.  His  hand  would 
be  in  mine  before  I  could  dismount.  -In  the  mean 
while  the  miles  between  us  diminished  rapidly. 
My  horse  enjoyed,  as  I  did,  every  step  of  the  happy 
road.  His  prompt,  elastic  tread  showed  it,  and  the 
alert  ears  which  seemed  not  watchful  against  danger, 
but  vigilant  to  catch  all  the  sweet  and  animating 
sounds  that  cheered  us  forward. 

Three  miles  from  Quickster  we  came  on  the 
intended  town  of  Ossian.  I  stopped  a  moment. 
Harry  had  probably  lingered  here  yesterday,  watch- 
ing to  see  me  emerge  from  that  dusky  wood-path. 
He  had  found  no  one  to  speak  to.  One  inhabitant 


282  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

outstayed  the  rest  a  year ;  but  he  has  now  been 
long  gone,  and  his  house  is  falling  in. 

Beyond  Ossian  the  road  was  new  to  me.  For 
about  three  miles  it  is  good.  Then  the  country  be- 
comes uneven,,  and  soon  after  very  hilly.  It  was 
slower  work  here ;  but  Brownie  and  I  took  it 
pleasantly. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  Omocqua?"  I  asked,  as  he  was 
passing  me,  a  man  whom  I  had  watched  painfully 
descending  in  his  little  wagon  the  hill  I  was  about 
to  climb. 

He  drew  up  at  once. 

"  Omocqua  ?  You  are  for  Omocqua  ?  An  hour, 
or  a  little  more ;  though  I  am  a  good  hour  and 
a  half  from  there.  They  had  something  of  a  fuss 
down  there  last  night,  perhaps  you  know." 

"  What  about  ?  " 

"  Well,  a  man  from  Tenpinville  met  a  runaway 
boy  of  his  who  had  been  hiding  round  there.  The 
fellow  ran ;  his  master  hailed  him,  and  when  he 
would  n't  stop,  out  with  a  pistol  and  shot  him  flat." 

"  What  was  the  man's  name  ?  " 

"  If  I  heard,  I  've  lost  it.  I  put  up  just  outside 
the  town.  If  I  'd  gone  in  to  hear  the  talk,  I  might 
have  got  mixed  up,  and  I  'd  no  call." 

The  hour  was  a  long  one.  I  hardly  wished  it 
shorter,  yet  I  tried  to  hasten.  I  urged  my  horse  ; 
but  mastery  is  of  the  spirit,  not  of  the  hand  or  will. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  283 

He  had  obeyed  so  well  the  unconscious  impulse ! 
and  now,  though  he  started  forward  under  the 
spur  of  an  inciting  word,  he  soon  forgot  it,  and 
mounted  the  slow  hills  and  descended  them  again 
with  drudging  step  and  listless  ears. 

What  a  meeting !  what  a  topic  for  the  nineteenth 
of  April !  I  imagined  Harry's  grief,  his  shame,  his 
concentrated  indignation.  I  remembered  the  flash 
of  his  eye,  the  flush  of  his  cheek,  when  Dr.  Borrow 
was  telling  of  the  approach  of  the  slave-coffle  from 
which  they  had  rescued  Orphy.  And  with  this 
a  keen  apprehension  seized  me.  Would  Harry 
have  been  able  to  repress  his  remonstrance,  his 
reprobation?  The  common  man  ,1  had  just  met 
had  not  trusted  the  acquired  prudence  of  half  a 
century.  Could  Harry's  warm  young  heart  con- 
tain itself? 

Why  was  I  not  there  ?  A  warning,  a  restrain- 
ing word .  But  would  Harry  have  heard  it? 

Could  I  have  spoken  it  ?  Would  he  not  have  felt, 
must  not  I  have  felt  with  him,  that  this  was  one 
of  those  moments  when  to  see  wrong  done  without 
protesting  is  to  share  in  it  ?  And  then  rose  before 
me  the  possible  scenes  :  —  the  beautiful,  glowing 
face,  the  noble,  passionate  words,  the  tumult,  the 
clamor,  the  scoff,  the  threat,  the Oh,  no !  sure- 
ly the  angels  would  have  had  charge  concerning 
him  ! 


284  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

When  we  reached  the  summit  of  the  last  hill, 
my  horse  stopped  of  himself,  as  if  to  let  me  receive 
well  into  my  mind  the  first  lovely  aspect  of  the 
town  below  us,  and  thus  connect  a  charm  with  its 
name  which  nearer  knowledge  should  not  be  able  to 

disturb. 

•r 

I  yielded  to  the  influence  of  the  scene  the  more 
easily  that  it  was  in  such  contrast  with  my  per- 
turbed feelings.  We  may  court  and  cherish  a  fanci- 
ful or  a  superficial  grief;  but  the  bitterly  tormented 
mind  asks  ease  as  the  tortured  body  does,  and  takes 
eagerly  the  soothing  draught  from  any  hand.  The 
landscape,  still  freshened  by  the  night,  and  already 
brilliant  writh  the  day,  spoke  peace  and  hope.  I  ac- 
cepted the  promise.  Descending  the  hill,  I  thought 
and  reasoned  cheerfully.  I  smiled  that  I  should 
have  fancied  nothing  could  happen  in  Omocqua, 
when  Harry  was  there,  without  his  having  a  part 
in  it.  This  took  place  last  evening;  he  had  not 
heard  of  it  yet,  perhaps.  Or  he  had  heard  of  it ; 
but  not  until  it  was  over,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done.  He  was  commonly  silent  under  strong 
emotion.  He  would  have  heard  this  story  as  he 
had  heard  others  of  the  sort,  with  resolved  com- 
posure, finding  in  it  new  food  for  his  inward  pur- 
pose. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  town  I  came  to  a  little 
tavern,  the  one  probably  at  which  my  acquaintance 


FIFTEEN  DATS.  285 

of  the  road  had  lodged.  I  had  almost  stopped  to 
ask  the  news,  but  thought  better  of  it,  and  was 
going  on,  when  a  man  sitting  on  a  bench  under 
a  tree  started  up  and  ran  after  me,  shouting.  I 
stopped,  and  he  came  up  out  of  breath. 

"  You  thought  we  were  shut,  seeing  us  so  still ; 
but  we  're  all  on  hand." 

I  explained,  that  I  was  going  to  the  Jackson 
House,  where  a  friend  was  to  meet  me. 

"  The  Jackson  House  !  That 's  head-quarters 
for  news,  just  now.  All  right.  You  looked  as  if 
you  wanted  to  stop." 

"  I  thought  of  stopping  for  a  moment.  I  heard 
on  the  road  that  there  had  been  some  sort  of  dis- 
turbance in  your  town  yesterday.  Is  all  quiet  now  ?  " 

"  For  aught  I  know." 

"  I  heard  there  was  a  boy  shot  here  yesterday." 

"  A  boy  ?  " 

"  A  runaway." 

"  One  of  our  waiters  brought  down  such  a  story 
last  night.  They  are  sharp  after  news  of  their 
own.  I  told  him  't  was  wholesome,  if  it  turned  out 
so.  But  this  morning  it  comes  that  it  was  the  man 
who  was  running  him  off  that  was  shot.  You  '11 
hear  all  about  it  at  the  Jackson.  If.  you  come 
back  this  way,  stop  and  give  me  a  word.  I  can't 
leave." 

There  were  a  number  of  men  on  the  piazza  of 


286  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

the  Jackson  House.  Most  of  them  had  the  air  of 
habitual  loungers  ;  a  few  were  evidently  travel- 
lers newly  arrived.  Not  a  figure  that  even  from 
a  distance  I  could  take  for  Harry  Dudley.  Some 
trunks  and  valises  were  waiting  to  be  carried  in, 
but  I  saw  nothing  familiar.  I  recognized  the  land- 
lord in  a  man  who  was  leaning  against  a  pillar, 
smoking.  He  did  not  come  forward,  or  even  raise 
his  eyes,  when  I  rode  up.  I  bade  him  good-morn- 
ing, addressing  him  by  name.  He  came  forward  a 
little,  —  bowed  in  answer  to  my  salutation,  but  did 
not  speak. 

"  Is  Mr.  Dudley  here  ?  " 

Brompton  did  not  reply.  He  threw  out  two  or 
three  puffs  of  smoke,  then  took  the  cigar  from  his 
lips  and  flung  it  from  him.  He  looked  serious,  and, 
I  thought,  displeased.  My  misgivings  returned. 
Had  Harry  incurred  ill-will  by  some  generous  im- 
prudence ?  Had  he  left  the  house,  perhaps  ?  Was 
the  landlord  afraid  of  being  involved  in  his  guest's 
discredit  ? 

He  spoke  at  last,  with  effort. 

"  Is  your  name ?  " 

"Colvil." 

He  came  down  the  steps  and  stood  close  to  me, 
laying  a  hand  on  my  horse's  neck  and  stroking 
down  his  mane. 

"  Mr.  Colvil,  I   don't    know  that  anybody  is  to 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  287 

blame ;  but  an  accident  has  happened  here.  I  'm 
sorry  to  be  the  one  to  tell  you  of  it." 

I  dismounted.  Brompton  made  several  attempts 
at  beginning,  but  stopped  again. 

"You  had  some  trouble  in  your  town  yester- 
day," I  said  ;  "  can  that  in  any  way  concern  Mr. 
Dudley?" 

"  Are  you  a  near  friend  of  his  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  A  relation  ?  " 

"  No." 

He  went  on  with  more  assurance. 

"  Mr.  Dudley  was  here  about  a  month  ago.  He 
had  a  sick  boy  with  him,  whom  he  left  here,  in  a 
manner  under  my  care.  He  was  to  have  taken 
him  away  to-day.  He  arrived  yesterday  afternoon 
and  asked  me  to  send  for  the  boy.  I  sent  for  him. 
Mr.  Dudley  was  expecting  you  yesterday  afternoon, 
and  walked  over  to  the  Jefferson  to  see  if  there  was 
any  mistake. 

"  The  boy  was  his.  It  was  all  regular.  He  had 
him  of  Ruffin,  who  never  does  anything  unhand- 
some. I  knew  all  about  it.  Ruffin  was  here  with 
a  lot  of  all  sorts  he  had  been  picking  up  round  the 
country.  He  told  me  to  keep  the  boy  pretty  close 
while  I  had  him  in  charge ;  and  I  boarded  him  out- 
side the  town,  with  an  old  granny,  who  did  n't  know 
but  he  was  really  in  hiding.  But  it  was  all  right. 


288  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

He  was  a  pet  servant,  spoiled  till  he  grew  saucy,  and 
his  master  swapped  him  off,  —  but  quietly,  the  fam- 
ily set  so  much  by  the  boy.  They  were  to  think 
he  'd  been  enticed  away.  But  it  must  happen, 
that,  exactly  yesterday  afternoon,  one  of  the  sons 
came  riding  up  to  this  very  house.  He  left  his 
horse  to  the  servant  he  brought  with  him ;  then 
comes  up  to  the  door  and  asks  if  Mr.  Dudley  is 
here ;  hears  that  he  has  walked  out,  and  so  walks 
out  too.  The  first  thing  he  meets,  just  out  here  on 
the  square,  is  this  boy,  whom  he  had  been  fond  of, 
and  only  over-kind  to.  The  boy  checks  up,  and 
then,  like  a  fool,  turns  and  runs.  The  young  man 
calls  to  him  to  stop,  —  and  then,  to  stop  or  he  'd 
shoot.  The  boy  only  runs  faster.  Dudley  was  cross- 
ing the  square,  on  his  way  back  from  the  Jefferson, 
and  came  up  at  the  moment.  He  told  Orphy  to 
stand  still,  and,  stepping  right  between  him  and  the 
levelled  pistol,  called  to  the  other  to  hold  on.  But 
the  man  was  so  mad  with  rage  at  seeing  his  servant 
flout  him  and  mind  another,  that  he  could  not  stop 
his  hand.  I  was  standing  where  you  are  now.  I 
saw  Dudley  come  up,  with  his  even  step,  just  as 
usual.  I  heard  his  voice,  clear  and  cool.  I  did  not 
look  for  mischief  until  I  heard  the  crack  of  the 
pistol,  —  and  there  he  was  on  the  ground  !  I  ran 
down  to  him.  I  was  going  to  have  him  taken  into 
the  house,  but  he  wanted  to  lie  in  the  open  air. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  289 

We  carried  him  round  to  the  green  behind  the 
barn.  There  was  an  army-surgeon  here,  on  his 
way  West.  He  did  what  he  could,  but  said  it  was 
only  a  question  of  hours.  Dudley  knew  it.  He 
wanted  to  keep  on  till  morning,  thinking  you  might 
come.  He  lasted  till  after  daybreak.  Will  you 
go  to  him  ?  " 

I  followed  Brompton  into  the  house,  along  the 
entry,  across  the  yard,  through  the  great  barn.  A 
road  led  from  a  gate  on  a  side-street  to  a  shed. 
Before  us,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  was  a 
green  field  with  one  great  tree.  The  grass  under 
the  tree  was  flattened. 

"  Yes,  it  was  there,"  said  Brompton.  "  He  asked 
to  be  laid  under  that  tree.  The  sun  was  just  set- 
ting over  there.  When  evening  came,  we  wanted 
to  take  him  to  the  house ;  but  no.  We  let  him 
have  his  will.  It  was  natural  he  should  want  to 
see  the  sky  while  he  could." 

Brompton  led  the  way  to  the  shed. 

What  struggles  must  have  rent  that  strong  young 
breast  before  the  life  was  dislodged  from  it !  How 
must  the  spirit  which  had  known  this  earth  only 
through  innocent  joys  and  sweet  affections  and 
lovely  hopes,  —  how  must  it  have  clung  to  its  dear 
mortal  dwelling-place !  how  mourned  its  dividing 
ties!  how  claimed  its  work,  unfinished,  unbegun'! 
This  grief,  this  yearning,  this  reluctance  would  have 

19 


290  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

left  their  story  on  the  cold  immovable  face.  With 
these,  bodily  torture  would  have  done  its  part  to 
alter  and  impair !  I  followed  my  guide,  foreboding 
that  the  dumb  anguish  in  my  heart  was  to  be  dis- 
placed by  a  fiercer  pain. 

There  was  no  pain  in  his  presence.  In  death,  as 
in  life,  he  kept  his  own  gift  of  blessing.  The  holy 
light  still  lay  on  the  brow ;  about  the  lips  hovered  a 
smile,  last  ethereal  trace  of  the  ascended  spirit.  My 
soul  lifted  itself  to  his.  I  understood  the  peace  that 
passeth  understanding. 

An  angry  voice  brought  me  back  to  the  world 
and  its  discords. 

"  Do  you  think  you  were  worth  it  ?  " 

I  looked  where  Brompton  was  looking,  and  saw, 
seated  near,  on  an  overturned  barrel,  a  figure  which 
could  be  no  other  than  that  of  Orphy.  He  sat  im- 
passive. Brompton's  cruel  words  had  not  reached 
him.  His  misery  was  its  own  shield.  His  utter 
wretchedness  precluded  more.  But  he  felt  my 
look  fixed  upon  him.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  me  for 
a  moment,  then  closed  them  again  to  shut  himself 
in  with  his  woe.  And  now  his  face  quivered  all 
over ;  his  lips  parted  and  closed  rapidly,  —  not  as 
forming  articulate  accents,  but  in  the  helpless  for- 
lornness  that  has  no  language  in  which  to  utter 
plaint  or  appeal.  And  yet  on  these  trembling 
cheeks,  about  this  inane  mouth,  still  lingered  some 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  291 

of  the  soft,  playful  lines  I  remembered  on  the 
pretty,  varying  face  of  little  Airy  Harvey ! 

On  the  way  from  the  house  I  was  conscious  that 
a  step  followed  us,  stopping  when  we  stopped,  and 
going  on  again  when  we  did ;  but  I  had  not  given 
thought  to  it  until  now,  when  I  perceived  a  timid 
movement  behind  me,  and  felt  a  light  touch  laid  on 
my  arm.  I  turned,  and  met  a  pair  of  mournful, 
pleading  eyes. 

"  Jasper !  " 

The  old  man  stretched  one  trembling  hand  to- 
ward the  dead,  while  the  other  clasped  my  wrist.  — 
"  It  was  not  meant !  It  was  not  meant !  " 

"  It  was  not,"  said  Brompton. 

"  Do  not  bear  anger !     He  did  not." 

"  He  did  not,"  echoed  Brompton. 

Jasper,  searching  my  face,  saw  there  what 
changed  his  look  of  entreaty  into  one  of  compas- 
sion. He  stroked  my  sleeve  soothingly  with  his 
poor  shrunken  fingers.  —  "  And  yet  there  never 
was  anything  but  love  between  you !  Oh,  think 
there  is  a  sorer  heart  than  yours  this  day ! " 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  I  asked,  fearing  lest  that  most 
unhappy  one  might  be  near. 

"Gone."  —  It  was  Brompton  who  answered. — 
"  Gone,  I  believe.  He  was  here  until  all  was  over. 
He  locked  himself  into  a  room  up-stairs.  Dudley 
sent  for  him  many  times  the  night  through,  in  the 


292  FIFTEEN  DATS. 

intervals  of  his  pain.  I  took  the  messages  to  him. 
But  he  could  neither  bear  to  see  the  one  he  had 
killed,  nor  yet  to  go  away,  and  have  no  chance  of 
seeing  him  again.  At  daybreak  Dudley  got  up, 
saying  he  had  strength  enough,  and  went  as  far  as 
the  barn  on  his  way  to  the  house.  There  the  sur- 
geon met  him  and  led  him  back,  pledging  his  word 
that  the  man  should  be  brought,  if  it  was  by  force. 
And  it  was  almost  by  force,  but  he  was  brought. 
Dudley  raised  himself  a  little,  when  he  came  up, 
took  his  hand  and  clasped  it  close.  'Good-bye, 
Fred ! '  —  in  a  pleasant  voice,  as  if  he  were  ready 
for  a  journey  and  must  cheer  up  the  friend  he  was 
to  leave  behind.  And  then  he  sank  back,  still 
holding  the  other's  hand,  and  looking  up  at  him 
with  his  kind  eyes,  not  forgiving,  but  loving,  —  till 
the  eyelids  drooped  and  closed  softly,  and  he  passed 
into  a  quiet  sleep.  When  we  left  him,  he  was 
breathing  gently.  We  thought  it  was  rest." 

Jasper  went  humbly  away,  secure  of  his  suit. 
Brompton,  too,  withdrew  silently. 

In  those  first  moments  I  had  left  below  my  loss 
and  my  grief  to  follow  the  ascended ;  but  now  my 
human  heart  asked  after  the  human  friend. 

On  the  rich,  disordered  hair  were  signs  of  the 
mortal  agony :  the  soft,  bright  curls  were  loosened 
and  dimmed.  The  pure  forehead  could  not  be 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  293 

fairer  than  it  was,  yet  the  even,  delicately  finished 
eyebrows  seemed  more  strongly  marked.  The 
brown  eyelashes  showed  long  and  dark  over  the 
white  cheek.  The  same  noble  serenity  ;  the  same 
gentle  strength ;  only  the  resolute  lines  about  the 
mouth  were  softened  ;  —  nothing  now  to  resist  or  to 
dare  ! 

Dr.  Borrow  would  be  here  soon.  I  sat  down  on 
a  block  and  waited.  Dr.  Borrow !  I  had  thought 
his  love  for  Harry  tinctured  with  worldliness ;  but 
how  honest  and  hearty  it  appeared  to  me  now !  I 
had  loved  in  Harry  Dudley  what  he  was  to  be, 
what  he  was  to  do.  Dr.  Borrow  had  loved  him  for 
himself  only,  simply  and  sincerely.  I  remembered 
the  Doctor's  misgivings,  his  cautions  to  me.  How 
negligently  heard !  Then  it  was  only  that  he  did 
not  yet  comprehend  the  high  calling  of  the  boy 
whom  we  equally  loved.  Now  I  almost  felt  as  if  I 
had  a  complicity  in  his  fate,  —  as  if  the  Doctor  could 
demand  account  of  me. 

That  Harry  Dudley  would  give  himself  to  a 
great  cause  had  been  my  hope  and  faith ;  that  he 
would  spend  himself  on  a  chimera  had  been 
Doctor  Borrow's  dread.  But  which  of  us  had 
looked  forward  to  this  utter  waste  ?  How  recon- 
cile it  with  Divine  Omnipotence  ?  with  Supreme 
Justice  ?  Was  there  not  here  frustration  of  a 
master-work  ?  Was  there  not  here  a  promise  un- 
fulfilled ? 


294  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

Careless  footsteps  and  voices  gave  notice  of  the 
approach  of  men  brought  by  curiosity.  Seeing  me, 
and  judging  me  not  one  of  themselves,  they  stop 
outside,  confer  a  moment  in  lower  tones,  come  in 
singly,  look,  and  go  out  again. 

Then  new  voices.  A  tall,  stout  man  stalked 
heavily  in.  "  And  the  boy  was  his  own,  after  all," 
burst  from  him  as  he  rejoined  the  others. 

"  The  boy  was  not  his  own.  He  did  n't  buy  him 
fairly  to  keep  and  work  him.  It  was  a  sham  sale. 
He  meant  to  free  him  from  the  first,  and  the  boy 
knew  it.  He  was  free  by  intention  and  in  fact. 
He  had  all  the  mischief  in  him  of  a  free  negro." 

"  The  man  was  a  New-Englander,  and  saw  it 
differently,"  answered  the  first  voice. 

"A  man  is  not  a  fool  because  he  is  a  New- 
Englander,"  replied  the  second.  "  I  am  from  New 
England  myself." 

"  I  don't  see  much  of  the  same  about  you.  Are 
there  more  there  like  him  or  like  you? " 

"  I  tell  you  he  has  died  as  the  fool  dieth,"  the 
other  answered  sharply,  coming  carelessly  in  as 
he  spoke.  He  was  a  mean-looking  man,  -trimly 
dressed,  in  whom  I  could  not  but  recognize  the 
Yankee  schoolmaster. 

As  he  stooped  down  over  the  man  he  had  con- 
temned, some  dormant  inheritance  of  manhood  re- 
vealed itself  in  his  breast,  some  lingering  trace  of 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  295 

richer  blood  stirred  in  his  dull  veins.  He  tumed 
away,  cast  towards  me  a  humble,  deprecating  look, 
and,  still  bending  forward,  went  out  on  tiptoe. 

Then,  accompanied  by  a  sweeping  and  a  rustling, 
came  a  light  step,  but  a  decided,  and,  I  felt,  an 
indifferent  one.  A  woman  came  in.  She  took 
account  with  imperious  eyes  of  every  object,  —  of 
me,  of  Orphy,  of  the  coarse  bench  spread  with 
hay,  which  served  as  bier,  —  and  then  walked 
confidently  and  coldly  forward  to  the  spectacle  of 
death.  When  she  had  sight  of  the  beautiful  young 
face,  she  uttered  a  cry,  then  burst  into  passionate 
sobs,  which  she  silenced  as  suddenly,  turned,  shook 
her  fist  at  Orphy,  and  was  gone. 

"  Dr.  Borrow  is  come." 

Gome  I  To  what  a  different  appointment ! 

"  He  asked  for  you,"  persisted  Brompton,  seeing 
that  I  did  not  rise.  "-He  is  in  the  same  room  he 
had  when  they  were  here  together.  He  mistrusted 
something,  or  he  had  heard  something ;  he  said  no 
word  until  he  was  there.  Then  he  asked  me  what 
he  had  got  to  be  told,  and  I  told  him." 

I  made  a  sign  that  I  would  go.  Brompton  left 
me  with  a  look  which  showed  that  he  knew  what  a 
part  I  had  before  me. 

Dr.  Borrow  was  not  a  patient  man.  He  was 
ruffled  by  a  slight  contrariety.  This  unimagined 
grief,  how  was  it  to  be  borne  ?  With  what  words 


296  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

would  lie  receive  me  ?  Would  he  even  spare 
Harry  Dudley  himself,  in  the  reproaches  which  his 
love  would  only  make  more  bitter  ? 

We  three  were  to  have  met  to-day.  Was  Tie 
the  one  to  be  wanting?  he  who  was  never  want- 
ing ?  He  who  had  been  the  life,  the  joy,  of  those 
dearly  remembered  hours,  was  he  to  be  the  sorrow, 
the  burden  of  these  ?  I  went  to  him  again  ;  again 
earth  and  its  anxieties  vanished  from  me.  No,  he 
would  not  be  wanting  to  us. 

When  I  touched  the  handle  of  the  door,  it  was 
turned  from  the  inside.  Dr.  Borrow  seized  my 
hand,  clasping  it,  not  in  greeting,  but  like  one  who 
clings  for  succor.  He  searched  my  face  with  ar- 
dently questioning  look,  as  if  I  might  have  brought 
him  mercy  or  reprieve.  He  saw  that  I  had  not. 
A  spasm  passed  over  his  face.  His  mouth  opened 
to  speak,  with  voiceless  effort.  He  motioned  me  to 
lead  where  he  was  to  go.  We  went  down-stairs, 
and  he  followed  me,  as  I  had  followed  Brompton, 
along  the  entry,  across  the  yard,  through  the  barn. 
He  glanced  towards  the  tree  and  then  took  his  way 
to  the  shed.  I  did  not  enter  with  him. 

When  he  came  back  to  me,  he  was  very  pale, 
but  his  expression  was  soft  and  tender  as  I  had 
never  known  it.  We  \vent  in  again  together,  and 
stood  there  side  by  side. 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  297 

Brompton  spoke  from  without.  "  There  is  one 
thing  I  have  not  told  you,  Dr.  Borrow." 

The  Doctor  turned  to  him  patiently. 

"  There  was  an  inquest  held  early  this  morning." 

Dr.  Borrow  lifted  his  hand  to  ward  off  more. 

"  Let  me  take  my  child  and  go  !  " 

The  Doctor  looked  towards  Orphy.  Again  I 
had  almost  wronged  him  in  my  thought.  "  Come, 
my  lad,"  he  said,  kindly ;  "  you  and  I  must  take 
care  of  him  home." 

Orphy  left  his  place  of  watch.  He  came  and 
stood  close  beside  the  Doctor,  devoting  his  alle- 
giance ;  tears  gathered  in  the  eyes  that  the  soul 
looked  through  once  more ;  the  mouth  retook  its 
own  pathetic  smile. 

I  knew  that  Harry  Dudley  must  lie  in  Massa- 
chusetts ground,  but  I  could  not  look  my  last  so 
soon.  Dr.  Borrow  saw  my  intention  and  prevented 
it.  He  took  my  hand  affectionately,  yet  as  holding 
me  from  him. 

"  Do  not  come.  I  am  better  off  without  you.  I 
must  battle  this  out  alone." 

Then,  a  moment  after,  as  feeling  he  had  amends 
to  make,  — 

"  You  have  known  him  a  few  weeks.  Think 
what  I  have  lost,  —  the  child,  the  boy,  the  man ! 
All  my  hopes  were  in  him,  —  I  did  not  myself 
know  how  wholly!" 


298  FIFTEEN  DAYS. 

And  beyond  this  anguish  lay  other,  that  he  would 
have  put  off  till  its  time,  but  it  pressed  forward. 

"  Colvil,  you  are  going  home.  You  go  to  be 
consoled.  What  am  I  going  to  ?  " 

On  the  side-street,  the  swift  tread  of  horses  and 
the  roll  of  rapid  wheels.  A  wagon  stopped  before 
the  gate.  What  a  joy  Charles  Shaler's  coming  was 
to  have  been  to  us  I 

He  was  prepared.  He  came  forward  erect  and 
stern.  He  saluted  us  gravely  in  passing,  went  in 
and  stood  beside  the  bier.  He  remained  gazing 
intently  for  a  little  time,  —  then,  laying  his  hand 
lightly  on  the  sacred  forehead,  raised  his  look  to 
heaven.  He  came  out  composed  as  he  had  entered. 

Shaler  spoke  apart  with  Brompton,  and  returned 
to  us. 

"  You  would  leave  this  place  as  soon  as  possible  ?  " 
he  said  to  Dr.  Borrow. 

"  Yes." 

I  had  meant  to  combat  the  Doctor's  desire  that  I 
should  leave  him,  —  not  for  my  own  sake,  but  be- 
cause I  thought  he  would  need  me  ;  but  I  sub- 
mitted now.  Shaler  would  assume  every  care,  and 
I  saw  that  Dr.  Borrow  yielded  himself  up  im- 
plicitly. 

The  moment  came.  We  lifted  him  reverently, 
Orphy  propping  with  his  weak  hands  the  arm  that 


FIFTEEN  DAYS.  299 

had  once  lent  him  its  strength.  We  carried  him 
out  into  the  sunshine  he  had  loved,  bright  then  as 
if  it  still  shone  for  him.  The  wind  ruffled  the  life- 
less hair  whose  sparkling  curls  I  had  seen  it  caress 
so  often. 

It  is  over.  Over  with  the  last  meeting,  the  last 
parting.  Over  with  that  career  in  which  I  was  to 
have  lived,  oh,  how  much  more  than  in  my  own ! 
That  brain  cold !  What  vigorous  thought,  what 
generous  enterprise  benumbed  within  it !  That 
heart  still,  whose  beats  should  have  stirred  a  na- 
tion's !  The  head  for  which  I  had  dreamed  so  pure 
a  glory  has  sunk  uncrowned.  The  name  dies  away 
in  space ;  not  a  whisper  repeats  it.  Harry  Dud- 
ley has  passed  from  a  world  which  will  never  know 
that  it  possessed  and  has  lost  him. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED   AND   PRINTED  BY 

H.  0.  HOOGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


A     000038918     9 


